He was tired of holding onto it, clutching it in his hand, fingers gripping so tight the bright white edges of it seeped out through the cracks between his knuckles. It wriggled softly against his palm, tickling his skin almost affectionately.
At his back, the sounds of an argument that existed long before he was even born echoed through the penthouse. Mother screaming betrayal, Father bellowing indignation, they circled around the same accusations and hurts over and over, night after night.
He tested his grip, loosening his fingers just a little and feeling the tiny scrap of hope cling desperately to his skin as if it knew what he was thinking, what he wanted to do.
If he let it go, none of the fighting would matter. If he unclenched his fingers and watched it plummet to the sidewalk thirty stories below, he knew he wouldn’t care anymore about how much his mother and father despised one another, how little his feelings–no, his existence–seemed to matter to either of them. He could watch it splatter on the pavement, the motes of its light scattering in the wind.
But in the end, he couldn’t do it. Not that night. Not the night before. Probably not the next night either. If he gave up hope, he’d have nothing left at all.