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005. casual
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only New York city at dusk could offer— a stillness rare and fleeting. Below, the city hummed with life, cars honking, people moving like tiny dots from the heights they sat on, but up here, it felt like another world. The air was cool, brushing lightly against Ingrid’s skin as she leaned back against the rough, cold concrete wall, arms folded across her chest. She watched the sky shift, fading from a soft gold to a dusky pink, the last rays of sunlight painting the horizon with a melancholy glow.
Evelyn sat beside her, cross-legged, her messy, colorful nails gripping a brown paper bag that covered the bottle— whiskey, Ingrid assumed. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt right that Evelyn’s nail polish was chipped, vibrant, and chaotic, like everything about her. She brought the bottle to her lips, taking slow, deliberate sips, as if savoring the moment, her face serene but distant.
Nearby, Dylan and Lucas lounged lazily, legs stretched out, cans of beer in hand. A few empty ones lay discarded at their feet, catching the light of the fading sun. Their faces were lit by easy smiles, the kind that came naturally after a few drinks and good company. They traded jokes, grinning at each other like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Ingrid’s eyes darted towards the bottles and cans more often than she liked, catching herself before looking away quickly. She didn’t get it— casual drinkers. It was something she couldn’t wrap her mind around. Maybe it was because, no matter how much both she and her dad tried to avoid it, alcoholism really was genetic, a shadow that loomed over them both. They were both at high risk, a fact she’d learned too early.
But it wasn’t just that. Ingrid had never been casual about anything in her life. She didn’t know how to take things in moderation, didn’t know how to do things halfway. Every part of her life was lived in extremes— training until her muscles burned, studying until her head ached, throwing herself into missions with reckless abandon. Eating until she physically couldn't anymore or not eating until she inevitably passed out. Even sleep wasn’t an escape; it was a necessity she tried to conquer, never allowing herself to rest unless exhaustion forced her. Everything she did was a way to outrun her thoughts, her memories, the guilt she carried like a weight around her neck.
She swore alcohol would never be one of those things. But still, she watched her friends drink. They’d finish their bottles, laugh, and that would be it. They wouldn’t think about it tomorrow, wouldn’t dwell on it or crave more. The laughter flowed freely between them, weaving through the rooftop like a gentle breeze. It was the kind of easy banter that came when there was nothing to worry about— no missions, no villains, no world to save. Just four kids sitting on a rooftop, watching the sun sink behind the skyline.
