Fall » Justin Bieber

"You can't fly unless you let yourself fall."

The shrieking pitch of the doorbell burst through his eardrums.

His mum lifted him off the countertop and set him down on his feet. After quickly washing her hands, she strode toward the door, and he ran behind her. She answered the door just as a knock hit it.

"We just wanted to stop by and say hi," said a sweet, bubbling voice of a woman. "I'm Cristina; this is Angel. We're your new neighbor—sorry, were you in the middle of something?"

He peeked from behind his mum's legs.

The woman had a pleasant smile, and when she saw him, it widened.

"Oh, hi, yes, just baking," his mum dusted her apron with a sheepish chuckle and then offered her hand to the woman, "nice to meet you! Hello, Angel!" She waved her fingers up and down.

The woman pushed the little girl forward, who stared shyly at the floor, and that's when he noticed her for the first time.

The girl wore a white sundress, its light skirt flowing above her knees. Her hair—the color of wheat glistening in the field—braided into two tiny ropes on both sides of her head. When she finally looked up, her jade-colored eyes shone like diamonds.

She reminded him of the angel statuette on their mantelpiece. So pretty.

"We've got a little friend here. Say hi, dear," the woman urged the little girl.

The girl had a funny look on her face. An amused glint in her eyes as she eyed him. He looked down at himself, confused at her expression, and dusted the flour on his shirt. His mum wiped his cheek with her thumb, giggling.

"Hi," the girl finally said, a smile accompanying the word.

"Justin?" The very same voice calls out, breaking him out of his thoughts. "I knew you'd be here," she sticks her torso out the window, climbing deftly onto the roof.

"Hey," he offers his hand in a force of habit, and she holds tight, carefully sitting next to him, her legs dangling over the edge.

Angel and Justin have been best friends since that day. They grew up together, running around with scraped knees, sharing a secret language, and having so many in-jokes that people often gave blank looks at their humor.

"You seem to spend a lot of time up here nowadays," she says, her voice soft and her look inquisitive.

They sit in comfortable silence, gazing at the setting sun as the wind ruffles their hair. The sky is a painting of an array of pink, orange, and yellow, the clouds fading and the pale glow of the moon unveiling.

Justin cracks a smile, his dangled feet gently hitting the bricks beneath them. "I like the stillness up here," he says quietly without looking at her. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She hums in agreement. "Yes, it is."

"How is Alex?" He asks cautiously, referring to her boyfriend.

He can feel her eyes on him. He keeps his face carefully blank but cannot help the shame creeping into his mind though he knows she doesn't know he knows.

The shout of anger almost rattled the watering can that he halted mid-pouring. He didn't want to eavesdrop. He only wanted to save his mum's dearest pink carnations, dying from his negligence. But they were loud enough that he overheard snippets of the heated conversation.

"Your jealousy is freaking suffocating!" That was Alex. Justin's muscles tensed up. He sounded dark and scary.

"Don't turn this around on me LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO!" In all the years he had known her, it was the first time he heard Angel raise her voice, and she sounded wounded than enraged. "...BASTARD!"

"... am... bastard? ... I to blame for YOUR naivety!"

All he heard was a ringing in his ears for the next few seconds. He wanted to move away from the windowsill, but he was immobilized.

"... touch me, Alex!"

"... explain!"

"... said... hear! ... just leave!"

Their altercation became a broken frequency between mumbles and shouts, like a distorted radio transmission.

"I'm putting a stop to this!"

He flinched at the finality in Alex's voice. The silence grew louder, sending his mind reeling in shock. He hastily finished watering the plants. As he moved away from the windowsill, the rev of a car engine broke through the still air.

"He is fine," she answers after a fraction of a minute's pause, "doing good." And he doesn't have to look at her to know she isn't, and it breaks his heart.

For the next few minutes, they don't talk. Rather sit there with the cold February wind kissing their faces.

"I feel you drifting away nowadays," Angel mumbles.

He regains his composure with a sigh. "What do you mean?" He averts his gaze away from the view toward her.

Her eyebrows pull down, the inner corners scrunching closer, "is it... your mum?"

The concern on her face and his sudden inability to breathe force him to turn back to the skyscape. The mourning is a paroxysm of grief that paralyzes his mind and weakens his knees. It's confusing and messy.

He feels her soft hand on top of his. He knows she meant to comfort him, but her touch only caused him added misery.

They are almost the same age, and it feels as if they have always been close and comfortable hugging each other, resting their head on the other's lap, and even holding hands. But now they are at an age where Justin finds these casual affections a little awkward, where his heart keeps telling him they cannot be just friends.

"I know she's all you had," she says with tenderness, "but I promise you're not alone."

There is a knot in his chest, and he doubts he will ever be able to untangle it.

He drags his eyes off the spot he had been staring at to her hand resting on his. The corners of his lips move ever-so-slightly to a ghost of a smile. Though it has moved down to her pinkie finger, she still wears the silver band he had gifted her when he was fifteen—his secret pledge of love for her.

He fears ruining their friendship.

But, maybe it's the look she is giving luring him deeper into love; and his muddled mind feeding him courage and hope that he allows himself to confess.

"I've been wanting to tell you for a long time," he pauses, that feeling to swallow his words swelling, but she is focused on him now, listening, "I thought it was only a silly crush. But the last six years only prove it deepened into more. I'm convinced I won't grow out of it."

The veins are pulsing in his temples. Anxiety hangs on his chest like a grenade with its pull ring yanked. He feels so stupid, so scared.

"Would it be weird? You and I together?"

At first, her face is a cobweb of confusion, then her hand resting on his lifts a touch, and his heart plummets to his gut. She pulls her hand and folds her arms, almost cradling herself, "are you saying... ?"

"I-I'm sorry," he falters, his eyes moist, the air stuck in his throat. "Let's forget I said any of this."

"You can't say something like that and then tell me to forget!" She cries, making him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut, hating to be the receiver of her raised voice. Then, she is mute. The immediate hush concerns him and her look of inner turmoil even more.

The next few moments are a fast-forwarded film, the scenes skipping past, colors bleeding into each other.

He recalls her getting up to leave. He recognizes the desperate feeling, his trembling hand reaching out. He remembers the soft touch of her sweatshirt brushing past his fingertips. He relives the startling punch to his gut, knocking every wisp of air from him.

But even as he sits on the hospital bench, his mind cannot replay the events. He cannot fathom what had happened. They have sat on that rooftop countless times. How can she lose her footing?

He slumps back, his head lightly pressing against the cool wall. From his seat, he watches Angel's parents speaking with the doctor. He doesn't know when he realizes something is wrong. But as if tugged to his feet, he stands. He watches Angel's mother crumple into her husband. Something is deeply, troublingly wrong.

Heart hammering, he strides up to them. "How is Angel?" He asks, drawing the three pairs of eyes onto him.

Angel's mother chokes on her tears. He stares in silence, not inhaling or exhaling. He has forgotten how to breathe.

The doctor's lips are moving, but he can only partially make out the words above the ringing in his ears.

Fracture complications.

Internal bleeding.

Blood pressure dropped.

I'm sorry.

There's a tingling in his toes and fingertips, a numbing slew of icy sensations. He swallows, incapable of speech. But oddly, when he opens his mouth, they move of their own accord producing a faint raspy whimper.

"S-she hates hospitals... the too sterile smell nauseates—" He inhales and exhales, expecting it will help him breathe a little easier. But the heaviness is still present in his chest. "S-she... She'll be fine if we take her home. Aunt Tina, let's bring her home..."

Angel's mother steps forward, her hand nestling his face, pulling him down to her shoulder. In her caress, he is standstill, limbs hanging at his sides. His vision blurs; his body shudders, and he squeezes his eyes shut as a tiny, terrified sound—a strangled scream or a stifled sob—forces itself from the depths of his throat. It's like a hand shoved into his chest, splintered his ribcage, and ripped his heart out, leaving him permanently hollow.

Since that day, he has been in a slow time-bubble.

The world moves slowly around him, like sand filtered through an hourglass, grain by grain. Never before had he noticed how time could be dilatory, measured, a constant tick-tock.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath. He hopes it is all just a funny anecdote he, his mum, and Angel will talk over sitting around their fireplace. But as he opens his eyes, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he knows that's a lie.

He is still wearing that goddamn black suit and tie. It suffocates him. It reminds him of the guilt, regret, plaguing despair, and raging anger. He is going to burn it to a cinder after the funeral. Maybe he will burn himself with it.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks. One foot in front of another, thoughts rambling in his head, yet he isn't thinking. Then, he stops.

He hasn't been here since that day.

He climbs onto the roof. He hopes for a slip of a foot, but he's too accustomed to the motions, nimble from practice. The brisk breeze sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. Standing erect on this edge, he feels the sting of loneliness clawing into his soul. He hates the stillness up here.

Curious, he edges a little further and peeks down. He expects to see Angel's splayed form on the ground, the flowing blood garlanding her head. Instead, he sees himself lying lifeless. He exhales a gust of breath and squeezes his eyes, feeling the tears run down his face.

He lifts his right foot forward. He feels the weight of the air molecules under his foot, of his bone-deep weariness, propelling him forward.

He submits.

The air tears at him at full pelt, assaulting his clothes and hair. It's wailing in his ears, almost castigating him. It is not unlike flying. He wonders if this is what Angel felt. If she even had time to process it all.

He awaits the impact, but someone yanks his arms, prompting him to open his eyes. The burning sensation of tears makes him scrunch his face.

Alabaster wings flap gracefully—it's so natural on her. She has that same smile from sixteen summers ago. She is, just like her name implies, angelic.

"I've caught you," Angel says, and the dam of sorrow breaks free.

"But I didn't," he sobs.

She moves her hands down to his, and he holds tight, hanging onto his life. They are revolving in the air, the momentum dropping and the ground far-flung.

"You couldn't." Her voice is devoid of resentment. "It's okay."

He intakes a short, sharp breath; he preferred her callous slap on his face. Their last disagreeable exchange is a constant replay in his mind and reinforces his self-reproach. "No... it's no—i-it's my—if I hadn't..." The tears blur her image. "I'm sorry."

Angel offers a comforting smile, even though he doesn't deserve it.

"Y-you promised. I'm all alone now."

He senses a pair of arms around his shoulders. He knows that presence, that familiar warmth, positively well. If it weren't for the arms holding him, he'd be a crumpled gob of mess on the ground.

"Mum..." He takes a wet, shuddering breath through his mouth. The tears stream down his face, and he furiously blinks to clear his vision.

She appears in front, her hands reaching and cupping his face. "You're not alone." She removes her delicate hand from his cheek and rests it on his heart. "Never alone."

All he can do is wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her shoulder. The knot in his chest is ever-present, but he feels it untangle the slightest bit.

A white light brashly encloses them; his mother disappears from his arms, and he plummets.

There is a weight on his shoulders. He peers behind and falters—snow-white feathers sprout from his shoulder blades. But he is flailing his arms in the air. The soft, wispy wings are useless.

Thud.

He jolts. His breaths come in shallow, stabbing pants. His vision is misty, and he wonders if he finally landed on the ground.

He squeezes his eyes and opens them to a blurry view of the horizon, haloed by sunbeams and drifting birds. He is sprawling on the roof, still wearing the goddamn black suit and tie. He checks his watch—there are still fifteen minutes until the service—and buries his head in his hands, taking a shaky breath.

He can still feel the lingering touch on his cheek. He can still feel the warmth on his palms. Hearing their voice, being in their presence, felt so real. It reminded him of what it's like to breathe again.

Quiet hiccups and sniffles rack his body. He rests his quivering hand on his heart.

The promise, a fluttering white feather swirling down to rest beside him.

He's not alone. 

https://youtu.be/3OmeRz8lj_Q