"What you gonna do after all of this ends?"
"All of this...? What you mean?"
"You know? Like... this everyday usual life?"
"You mean after this... jail?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Head home, I guess."
"Not that, you fool. I was saying like what happens after you complete school. Your task. You'll go to uni or something?"
He looked up—
Sky's clean — no clouds, no trace of wind, just a bright white noon that didn't burn. The air's still, lazy almost, like it's too tired to move.
He looked down.
The playground's full — scattered groups sitting on the edge of the field, some running, some pretending to study. From this high up, everything looked small. Fleeting. The world doing what it always does, like it'll keep spinning even if he stops.
"Maybe, maybe not." he said, voice flat, almost lazy.
"Maybe, maybe not," she echoed, rolling her eyes. "You always say that when you've already made up your mind, don't you?"
He shot her a side glance. "Not really. I just don't know."
And that was the truth. He didn't bother wasting brain cells on something that didn't matter. He'd be gone soon enough—month, week, who knows. This life, this school, these faces… he'd erase them all when the time came.
"So you haven't decided anything?" she asked, leaning forward a little. "Your future and all that—it's just blank?"
"Could be. No one can predict the future."
"Yeah, but…" she paused, fumbling for words. "You do know you'll have to make money, right? Like, find a job or something? Or you secretly loaded?"
He did have a job. And he earned enough—more than enough. Just didn't have much use for it. Not now.
"I'll find something," he said.
"Yeah, sure you will," she replied with a smirk. "You really think you'll manage? 'Cause I don't. Not even one percent. You're always zoning out, staring at nothing, skipping half your classes, ignoring everyone. Honestly, I can't figure out what you're gonna do with your life after this ends."
He felt an itch crawl up the back of his neck. Was she seriously lecturing him? Her? Of all people?
"You talk like you've already got it all figured out." His tone didn't lift an inch.
"Yep." She said it with the confidence of someone who actually believed it.
"Good for you then."
"You're not even gonna ask what I decided?"
He turned his head slightly, giving her that half-dead look that basically said I don't care.
"Oh, come on," she said, nudging him with her elbow. "You're dying to know. Don't lie."
"Yeah, I'm interested," he said, playing along.
"Well, since you're begging so much…" her voice softened, a little shy. "I'm gonna be an author."
He blinked once. "Why?" The word came out quicker than he expected—like it slipped past his guard.
"Why?" she echoed, thinking for a second. Then shrugged. "Why not?"
"There has to be a reason."
"Well, yeah…" she paused, chewing her lip. "There is. I just like stories."
"That's all?"
"I guess…" She leaned back a little, eyes narrowing at the sun. "I used to read a lot—like, a lot. Romance, history, mystery, fantasy, whatever I could get my hands on. Then I figured… why can't I write one myself?"
He listened quietly. No comment. No nod. Just there. Maybe he was thinking, maybe his brain was empty—impossible to tell with him.
She frowned a little.He's not buying it, is he?
"To be honest," she said, lowering her voice, "I want to become an author because I want to tell stories my way. Where I decide everything. I can change the past, predict the future—make things go right for once. I want to control it all." She lifted the pen she'd been holding, twirling it between her fingers. "Through this."
"Good enough motivation," he said flatly.
"You really think I can't pull it off, don't you?"
"Anyone can, if they try hard enough."
"Oh, don't give me that philosophical crap," she snapped lightly, turning his way. "Just say it—'you can't'."
"I'm saying anyone can." He met her eyes this time—steady, calm. "Even you. And I'm not the one to judge anyone."
"Hmph." She turned away again, staring at the playground below. "You don't know anything…" she muttered under her breath. "How powerless someone can be when they can't even control their own choices… when they can't change what's already done. You have no idea… how much regret, how much pain…" Her words drifted off, swallowed by the wind. "You know nothing. Nothing at all."
"You saying something?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked, straightening up. "No—nothing. Just talking to myself."
But her chest felt heavier now. Like those words she tried to hide… ended up cutting deeper than she meant them to.
Neither of them spoke after that. The wind brushed past, carrying the faint sound of students laughing somewhere below. A whistle blew.
The world kept moving—loud, bright, and careless.
Up here, the silence stayed.
Louder than everything else.
Then—
the rooftop door creaked open behind them.
"This area's off limits."A voice called out.
They both turned. For a second, no one moved.
Then their eyes met—just a shared glance, half amused, half tired.
He stood up first. "We should go."
She smirked lightly. "After you."
He walked ahead without saying anything, hands in pockets, his shadow stretching long across the rooftop tiles.
By the time the door clicked shut behind them, the world outside had already started to blur.
As they stepped through the school gate, the quiet had already settled between them again.
The street was half–asleep in the afternoon heat—bikes parked crookedly, a stray dog sleeping in shade, someone selling ice cream near the corner.
Then she spoke first.
"Hey," she said, kicking at a loose pebble. "You ever wish you could start over?"
He looked at her, brow creasing faintly. "Start over?"
"Yeah, like… if life had a restart button or something."
He thought for a moment, or maybe pretended to. "Not really."
She gave a soft snort. "Seriously? You never thought about it? Like, 'damn, I wish I didn't say that,' or 'I wish I hadn't done that'?"
"Everyone thinks that."
"So you have thought about it."
"Didn't say that."
She rolled her eyes. "Mr. No-Regrets himself."
The sun hit her hair as she turned away, her shadow cutting across his. The air was warm but not hot — that perfect in-between before the day gives up and turns to evening.
"I think about it sometimes," she said after a pause. "What if I could go back to… I don't know, a week ago. A year. Fix one thing. Maybe things would turn out better."
"Or worse," he said.
"Yeah, maybe." She smiled, faint and unsure. "But you don't know until you try, right?"
"Doesn't change anything."
"That's a weird way to look at it."
He didn't respond this time, and the silence stretched between them again. Just the sound of their shoes scraping lightly against the concrete.
"You sound like some ancient dude you know that? Who's already done with life," she said after a while.
"Maybe," he replied.
"Maybe?" she laughed quietly. "That's all you ever say."
He shrugged, eyes elsewhere.
She looked at him for a second longer, as if waiting for something more — a smile, a word, anything — but he gave her nothing. So she looked away again, toward the playground.
Kids were still running around, screaming, their laughter bright and stupidly loud. One kid tripped, face-first into the dirt, then got up and laughed even harder.
She found herself smiling. "You know," she said, "I kinda miss that."
He made a quiet sound. "What?"
"When everything was simple," she said. "No exams, no future crap, no worrying about who you'll be in ten years. Just… wake up, eat whatever your mom makes, play till you drop, then do it again the next day. No one expects anything from you. You just exist."
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
"Guess that's over, huh?" she went on. "Can't just 'exist' anymore. Now it's all, 'what are you gonna do,' 'where do you see yourself in five years,' 'how much you earning'—like, can't I breathe first?"
He stayed quiet. His reflection flickered in a store window — hers too, just behind him. The two of them walking together, faces unreadable. For a moment, seeing that, something inside her twisted in a way she couldn't quite name.
She spoke again, softer this time. "You ever think maybe we're all just pretending?"
He turned his head slightly. "Pretending what?"
"Like we got it figured out," she said, nudging a crack in the pavement with her shoe. "Like we actually know what we're doing. Teachers act like they got all the answers. Parents act like they never messed up. Everyone's pretending not to be lost."
He hummed low. That was all.
She gave him a sideways smirk. "That's your thing, huh? Stay quiet long enough till people give up talking?"
"Pretty much."
"Guess it works for you."
The road curved near the park. They followed it without thinking. The light turned softer, gold washing over everything. She could hear the hum of insects now, the faint rattle of wind against the fence. For a moment, it felt like the world had slowed down just for them.
"You think we'll ever be like that again?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Happy for no reason."
He thought about it, or maybe didn't. "Doubt it."
"Yeah…" she said. "Didn't think so either."
Another pause. This one didn't feel awkward, just heavy. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, eyes lingering on the orange-tinted sky. "You know," she said lightly, "if I ever write that story I was talking about — maybe I'll fix that part."
"What part?"
"The one where people forget how to be happy."
He gave a small nod. Nothing more.
She glanced at his reflection again, both of them framed in the glass now. He looked distant — not cold, just elsewhere, like he was already gone. She wondered what world he disappeared into when he stopped talking.
"You really never think about it?" she asked suddenly. "Starting over, I mean."
He turned slightly, not answering right away.
She kept talking before he could. "Like, not just to fix something — but to start clean. No past. No regrets. No one expecting anything. Just… start from zero."
"Sounds lonely."
"Maybe," she said, smiling faintly. "But at least it's yours."
He looked at her then, really looked — and she caught his gaze for half a second before looking away.
The kids' voices from the park started fading now, one by one. Parents calling them home. The air felt different, cooler, as if the day itself was closing.
She slowed her steps, her voice quieter now. "If I ever write that story," she said again, "I think I'll give everyone a restart. A clean slate. Let them make different choices."
He didn't say anything.
She smiled to herself. "Then maybe…" she said, half-joking, half-serious, "I'll write you a new start."