Your name is Dave Strider, and you're teetering on the edge, both literally and figuratively.
The rooftop asphalt is hot against the soles of your sneakers, the sun is blaring down on your freckled skin. There isn't a cloud in the sky on this perfect day.
Yeah, fucking perfect.
Just moments ago you'd been talking to the love of your life, the apple of your eye, John Egbert. Everything was going as it normally did. You two were throwing banter back and forth (TG: come on john just admit it EB: no, dave! i do not have a mancrush on nicolas cage!) like you always did. Then out of nowhere, John asked you if you had your eye on anyone.
And for some ungodly reason, you had told him the truth.
It wasn't some big, flamboyant confession. It was merely 'you.' John hadn't replied for a long time, long enough time for you to lose your shit by means of screaming profanities at yourself and punching walls. When he finally replied, what you got in return for your admitted feelings was
EB: what the fuck.
That's how you ended up here on the roof, looking down at the traffic from atop your apartment complex. Your heart felt like a broken mess in your chest, pumping not only blood throughout your body, but pain and hurt and sadness. It's not like you weren't expecting it, it's just that the real thing, the rejection actually occurring, hurt far more than you'd imagined it would.
You take off your shades and experimentally drop them off the side. You watch them fall, fall, fall until they're a miniscule dot clattering to pieces on the sidewalk. Behind you, your phone buzzes repeatedly. Ignoring it, you lift one foot over the edge, then lean forward until you're soaring face-first to the ground.
EB: what the fuck.
EB: i mean, oh my god
EB: this is so great, dave. you don't even know
EB: i really like you, like really really like you
EB: you there?
EB: dave?