The problem is they are up so very high. Standing on that balcony earlier with Esme, he had imagined himself falling into the river, over and over, and each time he imagined it, it became more real, until it felt almost like an inevitability, something he should just get over with so he wouldn’t keep torturing himself—no. Even now, while he’s safely sprawled on the couch, gripping its fabric, he feels as if he’s barely hanging on.
