Luke was angry. That's why his note hadn't been longer. He didn't want to apologise to anyone. He didn't want to tell anyone he loved them, because he wasn't sure he even knew what love was anymore. Why should he act like he had regret for what he was about to do? They didn't regret what they did to him. Whatever that was.
He wanted to place the blame on everyone else. He wanted to make them feel guilty. He wanted it to eat them alive. He was selfish like that.
In reality, the blame couldn't go to anyone else. No one had done anything to him. He'd done this to himself. He didn't have a reason to be depressed. It had just come out of nowhere, and that's why he could never remember why he had already tried twice. Nothing particularly tragic had ever happened to him as a result of someone else. It was the fault of the chemicals in Luke's brain, and it wasn't fair, but he was done caring.
He didn't care anymore.
But he did.
Humans see red when they're angry, but Luke didn't. He only saw grey. Endless grey. If people were supposed to see red, and Luke didn't, did that mean he wasn't a human? He didn't feel human. He didn't feel like anything. He didn't feel the cold breeze as it teased strands of his hair and nipped at his cheeks. He didn't feel the cracked concrete under his feet. He didn't feel the tears as they trailed tragic constellations down his face.
Luke had always had a problem with 'enough.' The word was not foreign to him, not in the way that he used it. Luke was not happy enough. Friendly enough. Smart enough. Unique enough. Good enough. Alive enough.
He simply wasn't enough, and he knew that.
He remembered what Emma had said before. You'll only make significant progress if you want to make significant progress. Those words had caused him to make Emma the villain, the one to prove wrong. The problem was that Emma wasn't going to be proved wrong, because she was right. Deep down, Luke had known that all along.
Emma was not a villain, but she was not a hero either. Heroes and villains didn't exist in the real world. Just people, that's all anybody was in reality. But people had the power to make themselves who they wanted to be. So, really, they could be both a hero and a villain, but only ever have seen themselves fit into one of those categories. It was all about perspective. Luke's perspective just happened to be looking down, very high off the ground.
Humans had the power to make their own choices, decide what they wanted, who they were, when their story ended. Luke was just a person, so why were people stopping him from deciding?
Emma was right, and Luke was wrong. He was wrong in ever thinking he would make progress, because Emma was right in saying that you had to want it. Luke didn't want it. They told him to follow his dreams, but Luke had been dreaming of death for longer than he could remember.
Was it really his fault if his dreams led him off the edge of a building?
Sadness was blue, wasn't it? It was supposed to be melancholy and lonely. Luke had a feeling some people would say he was blue. In his mind, though, he would argue that he was not blue, for blue was a colour and Luke was only seeing grey. Endless grey. And, Luke didn't know if he was sad. He wasn't anything.
Luke was nothing, and he knew that. No one cares about nothing. No one would miss nothing. Why would they?
He squinted out at the sky. He remembered when he used to see an array of pinks and oranges and reds. He remembered when there would be entire palettes of blue and purple blanketing the sky, streaked across the vast canvas like thick strokes of paint.
Paint. Luke hadn't painted in a while. That's when he knew things were getting bad. He didn't want to paint. It hadn't been working. He had wanted to talk to Ezra, but she was busy. Always busy. Too busy for him, because he was not anything enough to earn the reward of Ezra's company. He should have guessed that all along. He had been clinging onto the hope that she needed him as much as he needed her, but that was pointless.
