[ WP ] You have always wanted to fly , today you did .

I step closer to the edge, feel the feathers stirring under my skin. 
 
 They have always been there, as far as I can remember. Just an inch under the surface, hidden from view. But always so obvious to me, always so painful. A constant reminder. 
 
 I have always wanted to fly. 
 
 I look down from my vantage point, on the bridge's edge. Down below, people walk, both feet on the ground. Down below, cars move slowly, trapped in an endless traffic jam. Their red and white lights getting lost in the haze of the morning. 
 
 Flying. Flying over the cars and between the trees. Dancing in the air. Flying like birds do. 
 
 A gust of air hits me. The breeze caressing my feathers. They ache to be free. I ache to jump. 
 
 But I would die. 
 
 I would not fly, I would fall. I know this even if my feathers do n't. Like every morning, I turn to step back from the edge. 
 
 Except I do n't. Not this time. Not today. I just pause there, looking down at the city spread before me. 
 
 This view feels natural. It feels *right*, in a way no other part of my life feels. Here. Perched on the bridge's edge, like a bird who was taking a quick rest, just before jumping off again into the void. 
 
 I would die. Or maybe not? 
 
 There is only one way to know. But I have never dared. Every day I come here. Every day I feel the wind on my feathers. Every day I creep as close to the line as I can. And yet every day I retreat in the end, never crossing that line. 
 
 I would die. 
 
 But this time is different. I can feel it. This hazy morning I wo n't back down, I wo n't retreat. So I just stay there, frozen in time, unable to look away but also unable to take that final step. 
 
 I have always wondered why. Why I felt like this. 
 
 I raise my arms. No. *I spread my wings. * 
 
 Why I've always wanted to fly. 
 
 My feathers press against my skin with painful force, eager to escape their cage. 
 
 Why I've always wanted to be a bird. 
 
 I take the step. I fall. The wind rushes. I am going to die. 
 
 My arms *-no, my wings-* flap in the wind, moving on their own. As if they had their own mind. As if they had always knew what to do. 
 
 The sun rises over the city, its golden light gleaming off windows and glass facades. 
 
 I fly away.
