The sky over Silver Lake was painted in soft shades of violet and gold, the kind of sky that made lovers believe in eternity. Alanis sat on the edge of the rusted fire escape outside her boyfriend's tiny studio apartment, a cigarette balanced between her fingers, her bare legs dangling over the city below.
Inside, Jasper was pacing the room, reciting lines from a poem he had written earlier that afternoon—something about the inevitability of time, the loss of innocence, the death of dreams. He always spoke as though he were a prophet delivering revelations to the world.
She had loved that about him once.
"What a man-child," she muttered under her breath, watching him through the dusty window.
Jasper turned to her, his expression shifting into that boyish grin that had once disarmed her so easily. "What was that?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
"About me?" he teased, stepping closer.
"Always," she lied.
She took a slow drag from her cigarette and looked out at the glittering cityscape. From this height, Los Angeles looked beautiful—like it had never broken a single heart, never swallowed anyone whole. The illusion was easier to believe at twilight.
Jasper leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. He was wearing the same tattered denim jacket he had worn the night they met, back when she still believed in the fairytale version of him.
She had been drawn in by his chaos, his passion, the way he seemed to exist in a world all his own. But now she saw the cracks. The way he lived inside his own head, how he spun himself into tragedies so he could write poems about them. And how she had become just another one of his stories.
"Tell me something beautiful," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Something only you know."
Alanis exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the air like a ghost. "There's a house on the cliffs in Big Sur where the wind sings through the windows at night. The ocean below sounds like a lullaby. I went there once when I was little, and I remember thinking it was the kind of place where love could last forever."
Jasper studied her, as if trying to capture the moment in his mind, to turn it into a metaphor he could use later. "That's beautiful," he admitted. "You should write."
She let out a soft laugh. "No. I just remember things."
The room fell silent, except for the distant hum of a passing car below. Jasper sat beside her, their shoulders touching, the warmth of his body is familiar.
"Are you happy?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.
Alanis hesitated. She had been waiting for him to ask. She had spent months composing the answer in her head, rewriting it, softening it, hoping she could find a way to tell him without breaking something fragile between them. But tonight, she was too tired for poetry.
"No," she said simply.
Jasper flinched, as if the word had physically struck him. "Because of me?"
Alanis turned to look at him, really look at him, and for the first time in a long time, she wasn't clouded by nostalgia or longing. She saw him for who he was—brilliant, reckless, a man who would always chase his own reflection, even if it meant leaving destruction in his wake. She wasn't sure if she loved him anymore, or if she just loved the idea of what they could have been.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's this city. Maybe it's the fact that I've spent so much time trying to be your muse that I forgot how to be myself."
Jasper's face tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he reached for her cigarette, taking a slow drag before passing it back. "I don't want to lose you."
The confession was raw, unpolished, unlike him.
Alanis sighed. "Then tell me something real. No poetry, no metaphors. Just you."
Jasper hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I'm afraid I'll never be enough."
She felt the weight of his words settle between them, a truth he had never admitted, not even to himself. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he would always be searching for something bigger, something grander, something that made him feel worthy. And maybe, just maybe, she was done waiting for him to find it.
The last of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in deep indigo. Alanis flicked the cigarette into the night, watching as the ember faded before it hit the pavement below.
"Me too," she whispered.
And in that moment, she knew. It was time to go.