Just One Voice

•Sucking at Parties • Part Two•

~7~

As soon as the elevator doors open my house eyes undergo a visible widen at the sight before me. Completely dazed, I wander to the edge wall of the roof level and marvel over the beautifully painted sky. Vibrant pinks, purples, and oranges intertwine and blend across the entire abyss above the cityscape.

"We never get sunsets like this," I say in awe as I admire the entire canvas of sky. Sure, the air pollution and city lights were probably muting the scene, but it was still quite impressive for the heart of Manhattan.

That's when I hear a faint clicking noise, followed by a fluttery whir.

I spin around to see Max with a chunky camera. A small Polaroid prints out of the device and he shakes it carefully.

"I didn't know you had one of those," I admit, a smile plastered to my face as he lets me peek at the slow developing photo.

He proceeds to try to hand me the camera, "I don't. Happy Birthday,"

"What? No. How did you even afford—"

"Don't you know how to just accept a simple gift?" He interrupts me, "Besides, now it's used. Can't be returned." He points to the film in my hands and morphs into a knowing smirk, fully aware that I can't successfully argue that point.

"Frick. How come you're only smart when its against me?" I joke, taking a seat on one of three swinging benches scattered across the nice, well kept garden up here. Even though it's mid summer, and warm most afternoons, the rocking wood still has a subtle chill clinging to it that feels fresh against my bare skin. A dozen strings of fairy lights pave through the greenery in front of me, with an open area known to be used for dancing off to the right. This was easily one of my favorite places on earth, and Max and I had spent a lot of time up here in the past. It was hardly ever crowded on the weekdays, and only on Friday or Saturday if some sort of event was being held. But tonight this rooftop doesn't feel like the normal hangout spot, tonight it feels so much better.

Maybe it's just the fact that I got out of all the chaos that's happening in my own house. Or maybe it's how every bulb is lit against the dimming atmosphere, or the fact that the sun is setting so perfectly to create a masterpiece above me.

Or perhaps it's the person now sitting next to me—

Or a combination of it all.

"Remember the time you almost fell off of this roof?" I stifle a laugh, breaking the silence that had come over the two of us.

"Every time I close my eyes," Max says. His mouth twitches slightly, but he doesn't look up at me.

"If I look past the fact that you could have plummeted almost twenty stories, still the more I replay it in my head the funnier it gets," I tell him, chuckling to myself.

No response.

Speaking of Max Witherson, lack of speech can only mean three things. He's either dying, dead, or dead-ed.

Not sure what to do under the uncomfortably rare circumstance, I raise the Polaroid that's still in my hands and snap his side profile.

"You look even more depressing on camera," I hint, tiptoeing around the one question I want to ask. I can only remember a single time before that I've said the words, 'what's wrong' to this boy.

"Oh, yeah," he says, shaking back into reality. He takes the film from my fingertips and scans it over, "It's kind of hot though,"