text: It’s an awful thing when someone is concerned about you. One minute you’re counting the number of stories between you and the ground, and then next you’re discussing why you were up there in the first place. The casual veneer and delightful garden salad do little to hide the dark current flowing underneath. Compassion tears people apart. Things could have happened differently. This conversation could be taking place between a person and a box. One salad instead of two. Would it be any different? Hands are wearing a hole in your jeans, eye contact is a little left of center. It’s been two hours, and no one knows when it’s supposed to end. Is now when you walk away? Pleasant conversation is cleared with the dishes. Uncomfortable silence remains. Sometimes the person across from you is more important. Sometimes the person across from you is the person you can never be. Sometimes the person across from you is the eleventh floor. Jump.