Look Up

This is a very short story.  It's based on the Broken Rooms universe, here:

We don't look up.

I had been groggily aware of this, even before I saw him.  That half registered understanding that something was wrong. Slippery.  Hard to pin down.

Occasionally, I would break through and realise that I never look up.  I'd drag my eyes up and scan the Glasgow rooves, a growing sense of wonder.  The architecture; beautiful, so isolated, undisturbed, unobserved.

Every time I would come to the same conclusion.  I should look up more.  There's so much to see up on the rooves.

And I never would.  Months would pass, and I would look at my feet, shuffling round the city, looking at faces, at cars, shop windows, everything infront of me.  But never the rooves.

Now, though, it starts to make sense.  Last night, I looked up.  Last night I saw him, looking down.

I shouldn't look up any more.