The day I stopped being a fake smoker.

I was sitting when I saw it all, I was on the rooftop of the building smoking a cigarette, it was cloudy, one of those days where it seems like even the slightest thunder will make the sky collapse on all of us. That day I felt particularly overwhelmed by everything surrounding my existence: too much work, little time to finish all the tasks, the phone kept vibrating with each message, the weekend had social commitments that I couldn't refuse to have some time for myself, and apparently, that intermittent headache wasn't going to leave me alone for a while.

Among all the things I had to do, I decided to go up to the only solitary part of the building, the only place where I didn't see faces, hidden there between the void of the 27th floor and the huge air conditioners. There, it was the only place where the intermittent noise didn't bother me. I much preferred hearing the deep hissing of the machine next to me than listening to murmurs, incessant typing, laughter, ringing tones of calls and messages, or my coworker's incessant pen chewing... Anyway, this was my place and my private moment.

I actually never liked smoking, I'm a fake smoker... I smoke because I see others smoking and I feel like smoking, but I don't smoke because I really find it charming. The first cigarette always raises my blood pressure and makes me sweat buckets, it accelerates my heart and dries my mouth, but still, most people know that when you're smoking, you're having a moment for yourself and generally two things happen: they either move away or approach cautiously, but either way, it's pleasant to see that a piece of paper emitting smoke sensitizes people for at least a few minutes.

And there I was... sitting, immersed in my own thoughts when straight from the sky, I saw something falling towards me. At first, it didn't seem like it was going to fall on the building, but slowly that tangle of plastic headed directly towards where I was.

The sound it made when it fell will echo forever in my mind, the parachute had tangled around the person and had fallen at such speed that it had broken some of the skylights. When I managed to stand up, after the shock and looking for my phone... I stood there stunned, I didn't know what to do... well, I did know what to do but obviously, I didn't want to do it, I didn't know in what condition he was, I didn't want to find out if he was alive, agonizing, or dead, I just saw a lump tangled in orange plastic and thousands of threads and ropes... apparently, no one had heard the impact, in such a big and bustling city, that noise could have been caused by anything.

My hands were freezing, my breath could only be expelled through my mouth, I felt very scared, which in turn disgusted me terribly. Among the cold, the tremendous gust of wind, and the relentless urge to vomit, I was there, living the strangest experience of my life. Who the hell prepares you for this? Is there a damn manual somewhere in the world buried among dust and other books called "what to do if you're on a rooftop and a nobody decides to fall like a meteor 30 steps away from you?" I definitely wasn't prepared for this. I deeply wished someone would come and push me and start doing something, at that moment I would have preferred to be seen as a useless idiot without the slightest common sense... but no, nobody, absolutely nobody showed up; it was just the damn mess and me.

Slowly I decided to approach, mentally preparing myself for everything, to see a bloodbath (which I had never seen in real life), hear a deep groan and/or a scream of pain (which I had also never heard), or see a corpse with open eyes and a cold, empty gaze that would remain eternally in my imagination. I began to walk between the parachute and the ropes, trying not to fall, actually, I didn't want to get there, I didn't want to touch that lump, if I don't like touching living people, I definitely didn't have the burning desire to touch a probable corpse bathed in its own juices...

I gathered the little courage I have and took a few firm steps toward it... when I was inches away from touching it, a gust of wind made part of the parachute inflate and began to drag it towards the void of the building's south face, I fell backwards but got up as quickly as I could and in an act of deep heroism, I grabbed the ropes and winches with all my might only to realize my profound stupidity in knowing that I wouldn't be able to stop it.

Being dragged, I just wished to stop with something, a rod, a post, anything... and I did stop because the corpse hit the wall and I was behind it... and that's when I knew he was lifeless, my face and his face came so close that I could see his pupils through a transparent piece of the parachute's plastic... I could only see those brown eyes, I had never seen pupils so dilated and such a dead, expressionless gaze, I could see some of the blonde hair bathed in blood... and those eyes so dead, so expressionless, so similar to mine a few years ago.

After a few seconds, all I could do was cry, I felt a deep sorrow for him because I began to think about his existence: Who is he? Is there someone waiting for him? At that moment, I forgot everything and decided to unravel his so far improvised grave, I tried to move him, but the air made it impossible to handle the situation properly but I had to get him out of there, all my disgust and fear had vanished.

As best as I could, I managed to get his head out and then his arms, there was a huge puddle of blood, which actually helped me slide him out, with all my strength, I managed to free him... now there was a corpse and a guy soaked in blood, the perfect scene to go to jail for life. I searched his bags for his wallet, some identification, anything... but I found nothing until I reached the second jacket he was wearing... there I found his driver's license. James P. Jordan.

Now it was much worse... it's said that you can't easily get rid of something you've already given a name to... until a few minutes ago, he was a corpse... but suddenly he became James P. Jordan. I looked him up and down, his legs were broken, one arm was completely turned over, and the back of his head was a bloody mess... his mouth was slightly open as if about to utter a word and his cold, vacant gaze towards the sky, he seemed incredulous, as if he couldn't believe he had fallen from where his gaze was fixed.

I got on my knees to put his driver's license on his chest, I took his right hand and placed it on his ribs, I don't know why but I really wanted to apologize to him, and it made no sense, I wasn't even remotely guilty of his death, but still, I did... I apologized. Never in my life had I felt so accompanied...

When the emergency services finally arrived, a group of people had already gathered, detained by the building security, and there I was, holding James's hand. I didn't want to leave him alone; I couldn't leave him alone.

"Do you know him?" the paramedic asked me.

"His name is James P. Jordan."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"No, there's his identification. That's all I know about him."

From that day on, I quit smoking. I stopped being a phantom smoker. But I couldn't stop thinking about James. I didn't know where his funeral was, if he was cremated, I knew nothing about him, I didn't know what happened after they took him away. Because I returned to my cubicle, back to my life, to work. Part of me wishes I knew where he is to bring him flowers, to see his obituary, and sit there thinking about nothing, just as I did before I met him. Sometimes I miss James. I wish I had known him in life. Maybe we could have been great friends. Perhaps we would have watched soccer or played video games. Perhaps he would have told me about his girlfriend while we drank beer on the roof of my house. Maybe he would have convinced me to fly on a plane to overcome my irrational fear of flying. Perhaps James and I would have been best friends, talking several times a week, and we would have a photo hanging together on a wall. But no, I met the one who could have been my best friend when he was already dead.