In Julian’s mind, if he could just step into that penthouse, his problems—the mounting debt, the crushing loneliness, the feeling of being invisible—would evaporate. He imagined that the man in the penthouse, a sharp-jawed aristocrat named Alistair, never felt the biting chill of a drafty room or the hollow ache of an empty stomach.
One evening, through a fluke of a broken service elevator and a misplaced key, Julian found himself standing in the hallway of the penthouse floor. The door to Alistair’s unit was ajar. Driven by a desperate, feverish curiosity, Julian slipped inside. Wouldnt It Be Good - Nik Kershaw
Julian backed out of the room, leaving the door ajar. He walked down the twelve flights of stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs. When he reached the street, the rain felt different—not like a burden, but like a cold splash of reality. In Julian’s mind, if he could just step
"You look like you sleep," Alistair said, his voice a gravelly wreck. "I haven't slept in three weeks. They’re taking the company. They’re taking the house. And she’s already gone." The door to Alistair’s unit was ajar
Alistair gestured to the sprawling, glittering city below them. "Look at it. It’s all just glass and lights, isn't it? Everyone down there thinks it's a dream up here. But it’s just a higher place to fall from."
Alistair looked up and saw Julian. He didn’t scream. He didn't call the police. He just looked at Julian’s cheap, damp coat and his worn-out shoes.
Julian looked at the man he had envied for months. He realized that while he was looking up, wishing for the shoes, the man wearing them was looking down, wishing for the escape of being nobody.