Five thousand miles
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Building a friendship with him is a lot like climbing a mountain, like the cliff she's about to jump off of.
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Short drabble, impossibly dramatic. I hope you enjoy anyway.
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own this fandom.
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She doesn't fall in love with him. She jumps.
Both feet at once and eyes wide open, jumping five thousand miles deep into the abyss. Taking the leap without wings or any other evidence of invincibillity, and without any hopes of being caught.
She doesn't fall in love with him. Nobody pushes her into love, nobody pokes or shoves her over the edge. She doesn't accidentally stumble into love. She doesn't trip or slip over any abondoned branches or slippery stones. She knows exactly what she's getting herself into, and she jumps anyway.
And after that, there's no turning back, is there? There's no travelling back in time, there's no taking back what's been done. There's no defying gravity and floating back up the cliff, or landing safely and jumping five thousand miles back up.
Jumping off a cliff, it appears, is a one way street. There is no turning around anymore.
What a hopeless disaster, she thinks. What a hauntingly dramatic debacle. Hell, it's a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions, with only one possible ending.
And jumping off a cliff does sound like something Shakespeare would write about. Using a quill pen and grim smile to drip black ink all over their lives. But of course her life wasn't written by any William Shakespeare, it was written by herself, the one and only Gillian Foster.
She is the bitch holding the pen, the typewriter. She is the one signing off on all dramatic decisions, and she is the only one accountable for them.
Pulling the trigger woulda been more effective, love. Is that what he would say? One bullet, two brains, ya know? One big messy BANG and we'd both be done for. No need for all the jumping and crashing and all. Not as pretty, maybe, but a lot quicker.
But it's not exactly the same, is it? Suïcide by gun -it doesn't quite have the serenity of jumping. A gun doesn't have the view that comes with standing on top of a cliff, or the sweet torture of stepping over the edge. A gun doesn't come with the wind whizzling through your hair, or the feeling of flying as you pull the trigger.
And anyway, Cupid uses arrows, not bullets.
Building a friendship with him is a lot like climbing a mountain, like the cliff she's about to jump off of. Coming with all the same struggles and hardships, all the cold and exhaustion and thin air and all that, and with all the view and satisfaction of climbing the freaking Mount Everest.
And now she's finally reached the top, after everything she's been through to get there, only to realise that it's not enough. For a while it's beautiful to just stand there, at the top of the world, looking down at everything and everyone else. But she doesn't want to just stand there for the rest of her life, and she can't climb all the way back down again.
She really doesn't have the strength to do either.
So jump then, whispers a tiny voice in the back of her mind. Jump, and either learn how to fly, or be done with it all.
And she imagines that's what he would say.
Jumping is the hardest thing she's ever done. Jumping means leaving behind everything she's worked for, and giving up on all that she's achieved. It means stepping off the edge of a cliff and falling five thousand miles deep into nothingness. Jumping means never coming back to where she is right now.
Jumping is the easiest thing she's ever done. Jumping means leaving behind everything she's worked for, and giving up on all that she's achieved. It means stepping off the edge of a cliff and falling five thousand miles deep into nothingness. Jumping means never coming back to where she is right now.
One last big breath and a pounding heart. Both feet at once and eyes wide open.
She doesn't fall in love with him.
She jumps.
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