CHAPTER ONE
"Moon?" Dr. Patel's voice cuts through my fog of thoughts, her pen poised over her notepad. The leather of her chair creaks as she shifts forward. "How are your eating habits these days?" I force myself to meet her eyes, brown and warm behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Yeah, they're good. I gained ten pounds." The lie slides easily off my tongue, practiced and smooth. My oversized sweater hides the truth. "That's wonderful progress," she says, making a note. I give her what I hope is a convincing smile, though it feels more like a grimace. She glances at her notes. "Have you visited America since moving to London?" My heart stutters in my chest, memories threatening to surface. I grip the armrests tighter. "No," I manage. "My parents made it clear in their will that I need to spend one year in England before coming home." The words taste bitter. "And how has that been going for you?" Her voice is gentle, probing. "Great." Another lie. The rain outside picks up, drumming against the windows of her office. Each drop feels like an accusation. "Is the medication helping?" She asks, studying my face carefully. "Yeah, actually." I fidget with the sleeve of my sweater. "I even signed up for a peace retreat." The biggest lie yet. I haven't touched the pills she prescribed in weeks. They're still sitting in their orange bottle on my bathroom counter, gathering dust. "Oh really?" There's a note of surprise in her voice. "A peace retreat?" She repeats, clearly intrigued. "Tell me more about that." Her pen hovers expectantly over the paper. I scramble to construct details, the lie growing more elaborate with each passing second. "It's up in Thailand. Three weeks of meditation, yoga, the whole mindfulness package." I wave my hand dismissively, as if it's no big deal. Dr. Patel makes another note, and I catch a glimpse of her neat handwriting: "Shows initiative - positive development." The guilt churns in my stomach. If she only knew. "And how about your sleep patterns?" she asks, moving on. "Any improvement with the nightmares?" "Much better," I lie smoothly. "I'm getting almost seven hours now." In truth, I can barely manage three or four hours before the memories come crashing back. Dr. Patel beams at me, and I hate myself a little more. "Moon, this is remarkable progress. When you first came to me six months ago, you were barely functioning. Now look at you: weight gain, peace retreats, better sleep..." She trails off, reviewing her notes with satisfaction. I nod and smile, playing my part perfectly. Outside, lightning flashes across the London sky, illuminating the room for a brief moment. In that flash, I catch my reflection in the window — dark circles under my tired blue eyes, nothing like the recovering patient Dr. Patel thinks she sees. "Have you thought about what you'll do when your year is up?" she asks, and I feel my chest tighten. "Will you return to Seattle?" The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken weight. Thunder rumbles outside, as if emphasizing the tension in the room. I stare at my hands, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Yeah," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "My parents left me their house in Queen Anne." Another lie that tastes like acid on my tongue. I'd signed the papers transferring ownership to my Aunt Sarah just before I left. The thought of living in that house, with its echoing halls and empty rooms filled with memories, was more than I could bear. Dr. Patel nods, making another note before shifting topics. "Moving on, let's talk about personal relationships. Have you made any new friends since our last session?" "No," I say, forcing a small smile. "My only relationship is with God these days." The lie comes out practiced, rehearsed. I haven't stepped foot in a church since the funeral. The very thought of prayer makes my skin crawl. God, if He exists, probably turned His back on me long ago. Especially considering what I'm planning—my elaborate scheme to cheat my way into heaven. The irony isn't lost on me. Lightning flashes again, casting strange shadows across Dr. Patel's face as she checks her watch. "Well, that's all we have time for today," she says, closing her notebook with a gentle snap. "You're doing remarkably well, Moon. Really." "Thanks," I manage, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "That really means a lot." The biggest lie of all. Her words of praise are just more weights added to the anchor of guilt dragging me down. If she knew what I was really planning, she wouldn't be so quick to congratulate me on my "progress." The rain is cold and peaceful, pelting my face as I make my way through London's winding streets. Each step feels purposeful, meaningful, as I walk toward the city's tallest building. The distance gives me time to think, to remember, to make peace with my decision. The steady rhythm of my boots against the wet pavement matches my heartbeat, steady, determined. Through the curtain of rain, I finally spot it: The Shard, piercing the gray sky like a giant glass needle. Its height is dizzying, even from street level, the top disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. As I stand at its base, neck craned back, a homeless man catches my attention. He's huddled in a doorway, cardboard sign disintegrating in the downpour. "Here," I say, pulling my designer purse from my shoulder. "There's about 400 pounds cash inside, plus an iPhone 12. It's unlocked and paid off." I pause, managing a small smile. "The charger's in there too." His eyes widen as I place it in his trembling hands, confusion and gratitude warring on his weathered face. He mumbles a thank you, clutching the purse to his chest as if afraid I might change my mind. I won't need it where I'm going anyway. Getting to the roof is almost laughably simple. A few practiced smiles at security, a confident walk through the lobby like I belong here, and a maintenance key card I'd managed to clone last week. The service elevator carries me up, up, up, each floor taking me closer to my destination. My heart should be racing, but instead, I feel an chilling calm settle over me. The wind is stronger up here, whipping my hair around my face as I step onto the roof. Puddles have formed in the uneven surface, reflecting the turbulent sky above. I make my way to the edge, each step measured and careful on the slick surface. Looking down, the city spreads out below me like a living map — cars reduced to toys, people to ants, all going about their lives, unaware that I'm about to take mine. This is it, my final act, my last performance. "Peaceful, isn't it?" a deep voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I whirl around, heart hammering against my ribs. Through the curtain of rain, I make out a figure standing about ten feet away. He's dressed entirely in black, a hoodie pulled low over his face, dark sunglasses despite the gloomy weather, and what looks like tactical gear. Something about his presence sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the rain. "Did I jump already?" I ask, my voice carrying on the wind. "Are you the grim reaper?" A laugh escapes me, slightly hysterical. The rain plasters my hair to my face, but I make no move to brush it away. "No," he says, his voice oddly calm given the circumstances. "I'm just here to watch." He takes a single step forward, hands casually tucked into his pockets as if we're having a normal conversation on a street corner rather than on the edge of a skyscraper in a storm. "Oh," I say, because what else can you say to that? "Okay then." My bare feet shuffle forward on the wet concrete of the ledge, toes curling over the edge. The city stretches out below me, a dizzying array of lights blurred by the rain. Lightning flashes again, illuminating the stranger's face for just a moment, enough to see the hint of a smile playing at his lips. I take one final breath, spreading my arms wide like wings. The wind tugs at my clothes, eager to claim me. "Enjoy the show," I whisper, not sure if he can hear me over the storm. Then I smile, tilt forward, and let gravity take over. For a moment, time seems to slow. The wind whistles past my ears, and I can feel each individual raindrop striking my skin like tiny bullets. The ground rushes up to meet me, the wet pavement gleaming under streetlights. This is it. This is freedom. Except it isn't.
