The Ritz-Carlton balcony is empty except for me.
I don't know exactly when I slipped away. Somewhere between the last bite of chocolate torte and Sophie's seventh attempt to get Kevin to admit that gold leaf is "unnecessary extravagance." The conversation was lovely—warm and genuine and full of laughter—but I needed air. I needed silence. I needed to stand somewhere quiet and let the evening settle into my bones.
The city spreads beneath me like a glittering carpet, millions of lights stretching toward the horizon. The balcony is small—just a few wrought-iron tables and chairs, a potted lemon tree, a railing that overlooks the skyline. The air is cool and clean, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the closer, softer sound of the restaurant's kitchen winding down for the night.
I grip the railing and breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Lucas taught me during my panic attacks. The way I've learned to steady myself when the world feels too big.
