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“It’s cracking,” she said in a mundane tone. 

“You do realize the clock is ticking, then,” said Dolly lifting her legs upon the chair. “I see you are making yourself rather comfortable.” Angel continued. “So what?! I built myself a home at the top of a tree, and I knew the tree was hanging only for two decades or more. Sue me, I love life with an expiry date.” 

“Yes. Yes. You symbolized a house at the top of a tree to mean what? That you’re a misanthrope? No…no, that you’re a philanthropist and this was you doing the world a huge favor?!”

“Ha ha, Dolly! I do not condone your sarcasm. I will never expose my secrets of why I built my own house. I wish to see you boil yourself in prospected theories of why I did what I did.”

“Oh, shut up. This is not the time for drama.”

“For shame, Dolly. For shame! In the last 23 years, we have made our lives great with drama, enlightened speeches, and great judgments of ourselves. And now we are at the end, you wish to leave me stale?! Is that what you are up to?”

“I am not one for avoiding drama, of course. But I am, for once, denying denial. We can be sentimental or true to our innermost thoughts since we are literally to fall apart by falling down from this tree.”…Another huge crack broke Dolly’s speech and the floor. They are hanging slightly now. Yet, both seem comfortable at their post. Dolly is hugging the book she was reading for the last time. She folded her arms tightly around the book, almost hugging herself. She can hear her heart racing. But she is not scared of death. She was never scared of death. ‘Dying is the most natural thing in this world,’ was the title of her old notebook. She romanticized death and passion way too much back then. But right now, she figured her body is only reacting to extenuating circumstances around her.

“Okay, if we were to deny denial right now, what would you suppose to say?” Angel inquired. 

“I would ask you a series of questions.”

“Like what?”

“Why do you like stories?”

“Because, the universe is made of stories, not atoms.”

After a bit of a gasp, Dolly continued to ask. “Were you ever part of your own stories?”

“In those, I wrote or the one I lived?”

“Whichever?”

“In the one, I lived in, I was barely part of it. For the most part, I was an outsider. A third person to the moments and happenings. I am usually too passive to take part and be present while happening. I bet if I was ever part of the stories I wrote, I was the gutless, cowardly creature whom every reader would hate.”

“I don’t see much of a difference between you and your characters, then? Did I misconstrue?”

“I cannot tell. I believe my character would be more alive because of the ink that traced her in great detail. I, on the other hand, is the unfinished piece where the idea of me is alive only in the head of the artist. While in reality, I am the portrait you would never show to anyone else.”

Dolly closed her eyes and tried to compose her next question. It felt like she is stalling the last hours with words. And then she heard it. The rain is starting to pour on their hanging home. ‘This is it,’ she thought to herself. All of a sudden, her mind was engulfed with nostalgia. Rainy days were always her favorite. “Do you think the self is a misconception of our own perception?” She almost whispered the question while resting her neck on the couch.

“Oh, yes. More often than not, I think we perceive ourselves in the wrong. Ideally, in a way we would like to be perceived. Or the right standards as put by someone else. I don’t think we ever managed to get close to our true selves no matter how hard we try.”

“Do you think, then, the perception of others about us is true”

“Well, I think that is the paradox. Who are the others? If you ask your nemesis, your menace would suffocate you till you die. If you asked your friend /lover, your flaws would be overlooked greatly.”

“What if you asked both?” Posed Dolly.

“Huh?! I have never considered that. But yeah, why not?”

A lengthy silence splashed in the room. The room is getting cold. The rain is creating a rhythm with the air, the earth, and all the unfallen things in the room. Both are humming a song without opening their eyes. 

“Why do you think they build ledges if it weren’t for jumpers?” Angel laughed at her own thoughts. 

Dolly slightly smiled and said, “There are few who seize their days at the last minute, perhaps.” She smirked.

“Carpe Diem, indeed” nodded Angel. “Isn’t life more of letting go, though, rather than seizing?” She added after a while. The crack is extending fiercely. Quickly. They are looking at each other, their tiny home for the last two decades, and then the town. It is awfully quiet. The rain is getting stronger, now.

“I would like to believe it is both,” said Dolly after a while of contemplation. “Or maybe you seize while letting go. I don’t think there is ever a moment where you ultimately be one of the two.”

“Hmm…that is probably true.” Angel conceded.

The room is empty now. They are probably left with few minutes. They are both wondering whether to speak or to absorb the moment as it is. “Moment of Candor,” Dolly broke the silence. “Solitude was never the enemy. It was the isolation that was brutal. I often think we, probably, judged ourselves harshly. And I think we could have managed to obtain solitude without necessarily isolating our lives in its entirety.”

“Was that what you intended to say at the last minute?” Angel arranged her spectacles.

“Not per se,” Dolly hesitated. “I think it has been dawning on me for more than a while I think.”

Angel quietly sat on her couch. She is not hyped as she was few hours ago. She is just there, also not there simultaneously. 

The next day, the magazine was read as follows:

An elderly tree has been found fallen as a result of the heavy rain from yesterday. According to the reports, a woman was found dead while hugging a book inside. The neighbors couldn’t recognize this woman even though it has been apparent she lived in that tree for more than two decades. The posthumous notes found have shown that the woman kept every record of her life including the very last minutes. A heavy box was also retrieved which was labeled as “It is all a story!”