If our planet's insignificant, what's the hope for us?

Emerson knows they’re not special, but sometimes it’s scary just how boring they are. 

Maybe it’s because they’ve just moved to this city. Why everything seems so full, and yet so empty at the same time.  

They moved for work- 'thank you very much'. Every time they mentioned moving, people always assumed it was because they were young and craved adventure. Fuck adventure, it certainly wouldn’t pay their bills. No, they went to the state school that gave them money, went to the company that gave them more, and did what was asked without complaint. They could afford an experience once the world stopped destroying itself.

The first month was okay due to it being a whirlwind. Moving in and figuring out roommate's dynamics, going to work and figuring out work's dynamics, never mind feeding themselves and staying sane. The second month was worse because they now had time- to think. Work only lasted so long, and they could only sleep so many hours before getting diagnosed as depressed again. Hours were open with nothing laid before them- 

Their roommates were all disgustingly busy. Not just jobs, no, jobs aren’t enough anymore. No, they had aspirations. Jacobie was doing standup, Arya was working on her portfolio, Chase was getting his second play published, and Syd would take photos of everything and call it “work”, so it was either stalking or photography. Whatever it was, they were incredible at it.

Yet Emerson can’t do anything besides work and sleep. 

There were more than eight million people in this city. Every day, they look it up, and the number creeps a little higher. Every day, they’re stuck while everyone else is running ahead. Every day, the void gets larger and it’s a little harder to go outside. 

There’s this psychological concept they think about a lot. One they were told in high school psychology, which was probably fake now that they think about it. That we can’t mentally comprehend the sheer amount of people in the world as actually being human. There are simply too many, our brains just can’t handle it without having an identity crisis. Emerson tries it anyway. Every one of them is so much better.

Everyone else here is supposed to be- 

Emerson’s apartment is too crammed with people they don’t know for them to think, so they go to the roof instead. It's quiet there at least. It’s cold and the air tastes like fumes and garbage, but it’s quiet. 

They- 

They’re so tired, but they have no right to be. 

They’ve started painting again. It’s hard to begin again, buying all new things is expensive, and then there’s the actual starting. Putting the first brushstroke down, even as they know their placement is all wrong. That their brushstrokes are derivative and their composition unoriginal. But it feels good. They think it does, anyway. 

They should feel good, why doesn't it feel good?

They do it on the rooftop. 

Days go by without realization, yet their moments of thought are empty. A same repetition of a phrase, begging, but for what? They look back at their work and don’t remember painting it. Or-did they write it? Everything they make these days just seems like something found in the street. There is no ownership left in them. 

Was there even a ‘them’ now? Did they have a part unique or interesting enough to be called there’s, and not somebody else's? 

They were painting again yesterday- some unreal garbage, when they cast a gaze for inspiration.

And there he was. Someone, just a few rooftops over, smearing paint over his canvas. Some asshole who decided to be a special individual right when they were- 

And so much worst-he was better. Even a dozen yards over, his colors were distinct enough to make them scream. Or maybe that was just the sound of art supplies flying through the air. 

When you are young, you are told that you hurt because you are special. You are different and thus people hate you; you are better and thus people are envious. What you don’t realize until later is everyone was told this.  

Emerson believed them. 

They went up the roof, like they had done many times before, but not- 

There was no art supplies this time, no impromptu anxiety, no nothingness that forced them up. Just another mediocre plan completed. Even their escape would be overused. 

The air hits differently on the edge. They wonder if it will make the news, at the very least. Maybe they should add some dramatics to it, set themselves on fire, but-no. They would need gasoline for that, and they didn’t want to lose the nerve they were riding here. Just- 

And there was a sound. They turned around, and no, NO, someone was opening the door. She was some neighbor, a few doors down. They, they couldn’t do that to her. But, fuck, why now? When they were so tired and so finished. 

“Hi!”, her voice yelped, “You’re from 8A, right? Sorry, I was just going to watch the stars for a bit. You can, umm, join if you want?” 

They didn’t really, but also could not think of the words to say otherwise. So instead they laid beside her on the rolled-out blanket. 

She was obviously nervous, probably due to their muteness, and started rattling on about constellations and the meteor shower due next week. Emerson know they should say something to ease her mind, but her voice was soft liquid and overwhelming. 

Finally, words came to them- “So, why stargazing?” 

“Oh, umm, well it calms me? Like, the idea of space itself is calming. Like, we’re just clinging to this one infinitesimal rock, and all of this”, she lifts her hands, demonstrating, “is all around us-and we’re so tiny in it all. There’s so much mystery in it.” 

“But-if Earth’s tiny, what are we? If our planet’s insignificant, what’s the hope for us?” 

The look of surprise on her face was overtaking, “Well, freedom, I guess? I-if our lives are meaningless, that means we can get our own meaning from them. If we don’t have a purpose, that means we can be whoever we wish. All bets are off, nothing matters in the end-” 

“Nothing matters-” 

“-and that’s so exciting.” 

“It’s just-so overwhelming though. All of this is, there’s so much, and I just-”, their breathe was speeding up, yet the air couldn’t properly get in and- 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Here, I haven’t properly introduced myself, my name is Liza.” 

“I’m, my name’s Emerson.” 

“Okay, nice to meet you Emerson. Now can you breathe for me?” 

And her hand was on theirs. Yes, it was minute, trivial, it meant nothing- but right then it was more than enough.