A Taste of Freedom
982 Words
The streets below were a mess of blurred headlights and distant horns, city life moving like a restless tide. Alya sat on the ledge of an unfinished rooftop, her boots dangling over the edge like she was daring the wind to tempt her. She didn't look afraid. She looked tired—like someone who’d been sprinting through memories that refused to sit still.
The rooftop was one of her secret spots. A place she used to come to think when thinking didn’t hurt as much as it did now. Tonight, the air was thick, not with heat, but with tension. Like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
Alya reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—the last photo she had of her parents. It was torn at the corner, faded like the truth, and carried a wine stain she didn’t remember spilling. Her fingers hovered over her mother’s smile. It was too perfect. Her father’s hand on her shoulder was too firm. The kind of touch that said, you belong to me, not I love you.
She stared at it for a long time.
It was funny, in a cruel kind of way—how her parents were never really hers. They belonged to shadows. To deals. To debts that left blood on the floor and silence in her chest.
A sound behind her.
Soft. Barely a footstep.
She didn’t turn. Just spoke.
“You followed me again, didn’t you?”
A small chuckle broke the tension. Male. Smooth.
“I like rooftops. And girls who talk to the wind.”
She finally turned her head, half-amused, half-annoyed. Luca stood there, hands buried in the pockets of his gray hoodie, face half-lit by the moon. His dark eyes searched hers, not for answers, but for cracks.
“You always show up when I don’t want company,” she said.
“And yet, you never tell me to leave.”
She didn’t respond. That was Luca’s thing—he knew when to push, and when to sit beside the storm. Tonight, he walked over and dropped next to her, legs swinging like hers, silence forming a third person between them.
“You found something, didn’t you?” he asked after a moment.
Alya’s fingers tightened around the photo. She didn’t answer directly.
“Have you ever hated someone and missed them at the same time?” she asked instead.
Luca tilted his head, studying her.
“Only once,” he said softly. “And it messed me up for a long time.”
She nodded like she understood. Because she did.
There was something tangled in her chest. She couldn’t name it, but it burned whenever she thought about her father’s voice in that final moment. Not a plea. Not regret. Just a look. Like he knew this was coming. Like he’d made peace with it.
Coward.
“Do you think we’re all just products of our damage?” she asked.
Luca smirked. “Deep question for someone who skipped therapy.”
She smiled—just a twitch of the lips—but it was something.
“No seriously,” she continued. “Do you think people are born broken, or they become that way?”
“I think... some people get handed glass and are told it’s gold. Then when it cuts them, everyone acts surprised.”
She looked at him for the first time, really looked. There were lines under his eyes he tried to hide, and a scar at his jaw he never talked about. Luca always wore jokes like armor. But Alya had seen enough to know that armor was dented.
“You sound like someone who knows,” she said.
“I know more than I want to.” He paused. “And you? What did you find?”
She unfolded a second paper from her other pocket—one she hadn’t looked at since printing it. A name. An address. A timestamp.
Luca took it from her fingers gently, like it might burn him.
“You’re getting close,” he whispered.
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
The city lights flickered below. Somewhere, a siren wailed. The night felt like it was pressing down on them. Alya leaned back on her hands, hair blowing softly around her face.
“Do you ever think about just leaving?” she asked.
Luca didn’t hesitate. “Every day.”
“Why don’t you?”
He turned to her. His voice was quiet. “Because then I’d never know how your story ends.”
That caught her off guard. She blinked. Looked away. Emotion crept up her throat, sharp and unfamiliar.
“I don’t think it ends well,” she said finally.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But it might get better before it gets worse.”
That was Luca—always a flicker of hope, even when everything else burned.
Alya stood up, brushing dust from her jeans. She pocketed the photo and the paper. Her eyes scanned the skyline—cold, endless, full of stories.
“I have to meet someone tomorrow,” she said. “Someone who might’ve known what my father did. What he got involved in.”
“You want me to come?”
She thought about it. Shook her head.
“No. I need to do this one alone.”
He nodded, not offended. “Then I’ll be one block behind.”
She didn’t argue. That was their language now—understanding without permission.
She started toward the exit, footsteps steady, heart not so much. Just before the stairs swallowed her, she turned back.
“Thanks for not trying to fix me,” she said.
Luca gave her a half-smile. “You’re not broken. You’re just... rearranging.”
And then she was gone.
Alone again. But somehow, not lonely.
- Writer
