Nearly three hours ago, I met him. His cold eyes stared blankly into the distance. He didn't notice me yet; his mind was preoccupied with the downtown streets one hundred feet below. I could sense his longing, his desire to finally start living, though there was little I could do.

I walked over to the edge of the roof, the wind nudging me forward, encouraging me to help. I was scared—terrified of another failed attempt, another one lost.

He turned around, mere feet away, and I could see his pain, feel it. I wanted him to live, to not end up like me. I approached him and pushed him off.

In a quick motion, he grabbed my leg, pulling me along with him. The skyscrapers sped past as we descended. My eyes shut, ready for it all to finally end. But it didn't. I opened my eyes and saw that the world below remained... below. I felt lightheaded, excited that it had finally happened—I had finally become normal. I turned to my right to thank him, but he was already hundreds of feet away, his wings flapping freely in the air, his pain gone.