The pen rests against the paper, ready to engage.

Total failure.

The page remains blank.

Below her, the city continues without concern. She thinks of the millions of people who will never know her name. Never see her art. Her greatest fear, right there .

Being insignificant.

The pen begins to move. Building her case. There is something in her art they aren’t seeing. Why?

She pauses.

Why can’t they see?

Her hand writes one word.

Viewpoint.

She stares at it.

A point… from… which to view.

Something about it catches. Holds.

She becomes aware of her eyes. Seeing. Mechanical.

Can a viewpoint ever not be?

She underlines it.

Writes, cautiously.

Who

She looks up at the stars. So close. Four of them stand out. Reaching toward her. Steady. Fixed.

Beneath the word Who, her pen leaves a trail of dots.

…am I

Then, a thought she had not anticipated.

… when I die?

"Trash."

The memory of the cleaning woman's voice intrudes.

She tries to push it away, but the echo of her broken cart with the squeaky wheel keeps cutting in.

She takes a deep breath. Forces the sound out.

She looks back up at the sky.

The wind picks up.

The city thins.

The four stars brighten, winking.

She smiles.

"Hello."

Her hand rises. Drawing a path between the points.

A low sound escapes her.

A melody. Unfamiliar.

The moment the final star connects, the wind shifts.

A gust.

Something opens.

The city falls away.

Suddenly she’s behind herself.

Above.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

Watching.

And something else.

Not there.

Noise. It’s quiet.

No commentary.

She looks at the body sitting on the ledge. Her body.

Is this really happening?

She anticipates a rush of emotion. Ecstasy.

Nothing comes.

It feels... normal.

Her space keeps expanding. Wider than the rooftop. Wider than the city.

She closes her eyes, yet still sees.

Weightless. No effort required to be alive. Just this.

Happiness, uncomplicated by a reason.

From where she is now, the ArtPrize rejection letter suddenly looks small. Almost absurd.

She looks at the girl on the roof.

Still waiting to be chosen.

An emotion approaches. Slow.

Pity. For the girl on the roof.

The girl doesn’t know, she’s so much bigger than ArtPrize.

A small chuckle slips out. Contemptuous.

They fucked up—

Air tears into her chest.

Her hands slam hard against the concrete. The city crashes back all at once, all noise and gravity and texture.

She gasps, letting out a sharp, involuntary laugh. Then another. She is sobbing and laughing at the same time, a frantic, ugly release.

She freezes.

Wait.

Who could she tell? Who would be impressed?

No. They’d think she’s crazy.

She looks down. Her notebook lies open beside her.

Who…

am I… when I die?

She looks at the underlined word directly above it.

Viewpoint.