“Hey, could you maybe get down? Step back a little?”

He gestures nervously to his wife whose bare feet are perched precariously on the intricately designed grooves of the baroque balcony in their presidential suite. His eyes trace the ornate curves and spirals that ride astride stucco horses adorned with plumed wings. Exquisite, he muses before his admiring gaze lands on his wife and rests there.

She is leaning over the latticed barrier, neck stretched out, and eyes fervently scanning the night sky. She is exquisite, he amends silently; extraordinarily beautiful and complex; to be loved, not understood; to be accepted, not analysed.

She spares him a quick glance and pouts. “But I am trying to spot the smiley face.”

“The what!?” He chuckles, moving closer to his wife and placing a delicate hand around her waist, holding her securely to him.

“There!” She points, her index finger punctuating the cool night air in triumph.

His warm eyes trail hers. “I don’t see anything,” he says, shaking his head slightly.

She grabs his free hand, wrapping her fingers around it, and guides their enjoined hands in the right direction. He leans forward, chin resting on her right shoulder, and softly laughs.

“It’s…it’s interesting.”

She elbows her husband playfully. “It’s beautiful. What are the chances, huh? Venus, Jupiter and the moon—all lining up perfectly to form a smile?”

“It’s rare,” he admits, placing a kiss on her cheek.

She smiles. That’s rarer still, he thinks and draws his wife into a deeper embrace.

She is standing in the same balcony, leaning heavily against the low black railing, hands clasped in front of her, and eyes turned upward in silent rumination.

She is alone, literally and metaphorically. Even the stars and moon have deserted her tonight. She doesn’t mind; does not care. Not now. Not anymore. She is alone but not lonely; living but not alive. She mutely regards her next step, and takes in a fortifying breath before climbing over the wall and onto the narrow ledge beneath. A mere sixty feet separates her from the ground; the sky, the sky is achingly out of reach. Not for long though. Not for long. She knows; knows she must fall before she can rise.

Her back is braced against the hard iron, one foot curled around the edge of the stone platform and one dangling experimentally in the air. Below her, the horses are waiting; poised for flight, ready to spread their angelic wings and carry her away.

One more step.

One more step and she does not have to wake up anymore.

One more step and she does not have to pretend anymore.

One more step and her body can finally unite with her soul.

One more step and her spirit can finally soar.

She gazes up at the heavens, and a canopy of darkness bears down on her. The universe is vast and fathomless, empty space dotted sparsely with celestial debris, and being impossibly stretched in every direction—a cavernous expanding vacuum.

She understands. She can relate. Like a star nearing its end, her life too has been stripped away to its core. And it’s empty now, her core. Bereft. There is nothing there now; no joy; no love; no anger; no pain. Nothing. Nothing left to sustain her. Nothing left to remind her—there is still life within.

There is no one to blame. It is her fate. Her destiny.

With a murmured apology and a final glance at the beckoning sky, she takes the fateful plunge.

He stands in the balcony now, one hand shoved in the pocket of his pants, the other gripping a glass of whiskey. The brown liquid swirls around in its crystal prison, the ice clinking mournfully as he brings it to his lips. He swallows thickly and grimaces, the alcohol burning as it makes its way down his trembling body. He wants to drown himself in it, wants to forget, wants to be numb, wants to stop feeling but cannot. He will not allow himself to; does not think he deserves to.

He hesitantly strokes the handrail, fingers caressing the spot her hands had eagerly held onto all those years ago. He covers it with his palm and is instantly transported. He can see her now; see how her eyes shone with brightness; feel the warmth in her touch; sense the lightness in her spirit. She had been happy in that moment, his heart clenches sharply with the realisation.

He takes another sip. He needs it to be poison but knows it is medicine. It is enough, just, to pull him back from the cliff of overwhelming grief and keep him within the circle of self-inflicted guilt. Her life had been unstable when he met her, already fraying at the edges. He knew that; she had warned him. But he had been confident (foolishly so, he knows now); confident that he could keep her from breaking, keep her together; confident that he could save her from herself.

But he had failed. Oh, how miserably he had failed!

He had thought, naively perhaps, that his love would be the answer; his steady and patient love. And at first, it had been. He had kept her from the brink of collapse, from falling apart; he had kept her going. But it had been exhausting – wearing – the need to always be there; to always pick up the pieces; to always push when she was pulled. The pull – the dark, irresistible pull of nothingness – had grown stronger and stronger until he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t fight back anymore, couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. So he had stopped. Stopped pushing. Stopped caring. Just stopped.

He grips the handrail tightly, knuckles turning white, and begs for forgiveness. He gave up on her. Abandoned her. And she? She had accepted silently, almost placidly like she was expecting it, had been waiting for it; a sad understanding smile gracing her wan features as if life itself could not stand to be in her presence any longer and was stealthily leeching out. She did not hate him, her words assured but her traitorous eyes accused; accused him of forsaking her, of not loving her enough.

Promises of eternity, once mighty and bold, now lie on a bed of salty tears, wrecked and forgotten.

He sighs and a sob escapes unbidden.

Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please forgive me.

A distant twinkle catches his bleary eyes; he swiftly abandons the whiskey and lifts himself up to get a better look. With his shoes hooked in orifices too small, he lunges his head out and stares at the object shining down on him. He blinks to clear his eyes, and it seems to glow brighter.

The first star of the evening.