The pen rests against the paper. Below her, the city continues without concern. She thinks of the millions of people who will never see her art. Who will never know her name. Her greatest fear, right there under the surface.

Being unremarkable.

She writes. Building her case. What she needs them to see. Their viewpoint on her work, on her name, on— 

Her hand keeps moving before the sentence finishes.

Viewpoint.

She stares at it.

A point… from… which to view.

Something about it catches. Holds.

For a second she isn't sure where she is looking from.

Can a viewpoint ever not be?

She underlines it.

Writes, cautiously.

Who

She looks up at the stars. For the first time, they don't feel distant. 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. One she's never heard.

The moment the final star connects, the wind shifts.

A gust.

Something opens.

The city falls away.

She is behind herself.

Above.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

Watching.

No noise.

No commentary.

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

From inside her old framework, this should feel enormous. Ecstatic.

She anticipates the rush of emotion.

Nothing comes.

This doesn’t feel extraordinary.

It feels... normal.

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

She closes her eyes.

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

Happiness, uncomplicated by a reason.

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

Her eyes open. She looks at the girl on the roof.

An emotion approaches. Slow. Almost arriving.

Pity.

Still waiting to be chosen.

I'm so much bigger than Art Prize.

A small chuckle slips out. Contemptuous.

Yeah, they fucked up—

Air tears into her chest.

Her knees 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 even tell? Who would be impressed? Who could hear a story like this without thinking she was completely insane?

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.