Alysa Liu

The balcony feels like a space slightly removed from everything else, not fully outside, not fully inside, just somewhere in between where time doesn’t move at the same pace. The door behind you is left cracked open, letting a thin line of warm light spill across the floor before fading into the darker blue of the night. Beyond the railing, the city stretches out in scattered points of light, distant enough that none of it feels immediate, just a quiet reminder that life is still happening somewhere else while this moment stays still.

The wind moves constantly, not strong enough to push, but steady enough to be felt at all times, threading through the space without pause. It lifts strands of hair, brushes against fabric, settles against skin in a way that never quite lets you forget it’s there. It carries a coolness that contrasts the warmth inside, making the edge of the balcony feel sharper, more awake. It doesn’t interrupt. It just exists, shaping the quiet rather than breaking it.

Alysa is leaning against the railing, not resting her full weight on it, just enough to anchor herself as she looks out over everything below. Her posture is relaxed in appearance, but there’s a stillness to her that feels more intentional than usual, like she’s holding herself in place rather than simply settling into it. One of her hands is tucked into her sleeve again, fingers hidden, while the other rests loosely against the metal, shifting slightly every now and then as the wind passes through.

She doesn’t speak right away, even after you step out beside her. She glances over briefly when you do, just enough to acknowledge your presence, then looks back out again, her gaze unfocused in that specific way that suggests she isn’t really looking at anything in front of her.

“…it’s weird being up here.”

Her voice is quiet, not because it has to be, but because the space doesn’t ask for anything louder. It settles easily into the air, carried slightly by the wind before fading.

She shifts her weight subtly, her shoulder brushing yours for a second before staying there, the contact light but intentional. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t comment on it. It just becomes part of the moment, like everything else that’s been left unspoken.

“It makes everything look… smaller.”

There’s a pause after that, not empty, just stretched. Her fingers tap once against the railing, then still again, like the thought didn’t fully land where she expected it to.

The city continues moving below, but from this distance, it doesn’t feel real. Cars pass like quiet streaks of light, buildings stand still, windows glowing faintly, but none of it reaches you. Up here, everything is reduced to shapes and motion without detail.

She exhales slowly, the breath catching slightly as the wind takes it, her head tilting just a little as if she’s trying to follow something that isn’t there.

“…I don’t really know what I’m doing after all of this.”

The words come out more evenly than the thought feels. Not rushed. Not overly heavy. Just… honest in a way she doesn’t usually let sit out in the open for long.

Her hand shifts again, this time sliding slightly along the railing until it rests closer to yours. Not touching. Just near enough that the space between feels deliberate.

She lets the silence sit after that, longer this time. The wind fills it easily, moving through both of you without resistance, soft but constant.

When she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“I always thought I did.”

There’s no frustration in it. No panic. Just a kind of quiet recalibration, like something she’s been certain about has started to loosen at the edges.

She turns her head slightly, not fully toward you, just enough that you can see the shift in her expression—less guarded now, more thoughtful, like she’s letting the thought exist without trying to fix it immediately.

Her shoulder presses a little more firmly into yours as another gust passes through, colder this time, stronger for just a second before easing again. She doesn’t move away from it. If anything, she leans into the contact just slightly, grounding herself in something closer than the distance in front of her.

The city stays far below.

The future stays just out of reach.

And for now, neither of you tries to pull it any closer.

“…what about you?”