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there's no way out (sorry)

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Minho supposed it had never not been his plan b.

Once the thought of eternal escape visited you for the first time, it became a regular guest. Welcomed or not. Until your house was not your own anymore. Until you became the visitor. And Minho had long overstayed his welcome.

He felt the crisp morning breeze sharp against his skin, cutting into his cheeks where tears had softened the ground. He flinched at the pain, biting enough to make his eyes tear up a little.

Minho had always cried easily. He could never really tell for what cause. Tears of a weeping heart mixing with tears of eyes opened a second too long.

His fingers found their way around his shins, pulling his legs flat against his chest. If he could stop time's race, maybe all of this wouldn't have to be a last.

But Minho couldn't stop anything, not the time, not the tears, not the pain.

A bird cried in the distance, mourning the death of the night. First sunrays were tickling the horizon, and Minho was grieving with the bird. A few hours and the others would notice him missing. Felix would immediately know where he was. Minho didn't like the thought of the younger finding him. But the option was as poor as any. Maybe someone else would find him. He didn't like that thought, either, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. It didn't matter who found him. In the end, somebody would.

Minho's fingers played with the hem of his shirt. He could almost hear Woojin's scolding at the inappropriate clothing choices. But the cold of the night was irrelevant right now. There were matters more pressing.

Like the letter.

A suicide note had never been on Minho's bucket list, but he also never had somebody to write such a letter for. Now that he had, he could as well.

Minho's eyes drooped shut, shutting out the view of abandoned high-rises and wild greenery reclaiming its property far below.

The paper was crumpled in his left hand. The wordings were off, and Minho knew they would never sound quite right. Not before the sun rose, anyway.

His right hand searched for the cold outline of his mobile in the pockets of his trousers. It wasn't as romantic, but, really, what was romantic about this?

He typed in the code with trembling fingers, taking more than one try, but it didn't matter. The phone was on aeroplane mode, unsurprisingly. Minho hated notifications. Didn't like to be disturbed in his thoughts.

He would have found the recording app with closed eyes. It was his own kind of diary, he reckoned. The little metal crate in his hands knew his heart well.

He pressed the recording button and let the phone slip out of his grasp, onto the ground. The bird was still singing afar. Maybe, when the others listened to this, they would appreciate its song.

The nails of his fingers pressed into his wrists as he raised his head to the clouded sky. He liked the absence of the stars. He had enough people to say goodbye to tonight.

The recording was at over a minute when Minho spoke up.

"There... is not much... to say."

His voice sounded broken even to his own ears, but the muffled excitement of the nearing end was dragging through his veins, and that was all that mattered.

"I, just... I will miss you."

His eyes closed, and he felt the tears flowing again. Biting back a sob, he raised his voice one last time.

"I... I am very sorry."

He didn't bother turning off the recording. There wouldn't be much more to hear until it automatically ended at an hour or so.

Minho rose to his feet, slowly but determined. The world was swaying before his eyes, but that was okay. Black dots bled into his vision as he took a step forward, towards the edge.

How stereotypical it was, really.

But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing. Minho had managed everything he needed to. There was nothing more for him to do. Only another step.

The tears were still falling, silently. He would join them on their journey to the ground.

One last step.

Minho's gaze fell onto the trees and bushes down there, twenty-three stories beneath. Not the most poetic of a deathbed. But nothing in Minho's life had really ever been poetic.

He lifted one foot. One more step. Just one more. The bird was weeping in the distance, sounding a melancholy tune. Minho supposed there were less beautiful ways to die.

He leant forward.

I am very sorry. I really am.

He fell.