I walked out of the Empire State building, at 10:59 pm. A minute before it closed.

A faint voice called something from behind me but I couldn't make it out.

I whipped around and saw, Jesse, she was calling for me. "Wait for me!!!"

I flipped her off, ran past her and sprinted towards the closet shack I could find.

\|/

The next morning, I went to the bathroom and went piss.

I washed my hands and looked in the mirror. Nothing. My reflection. Gone.

What happened?

See, the thing is, nobody even questions it when somebody walks out of the Empire State Building one minute before it closes because by that point the city is alive with nightlife and neon. Everyone spills out onto the streets, far away you can hear the horns of angry taxis blaring and from open doors you watch people with beers and drink clinking their glasses in cheers. On the subway, you're probably not gonna be the only one with dark circles settled under your tired eyes exhausted from work. A lot of commuters, I think, have to contend with the growing rowdiness of the night-time crowd, and you get used to it.

Most nights, I don't mind having a bit of a life outside of work after I finish. I find myself stepping onto the sidewalk come rain or shine and then I fall into step with someone I don't even know as we all make our way through the crowd to god knows where. Sometimes strangers talk. Mostly they don't. They probably couldn't care less either way. Some people avoid you completely, but it only seems to be a last resort. People haven't completely done away with manners yet. Though, if you see someone you know, it's pretty normal just to slip away through the rippling swathes of people.

When I get far enough away from the office, I shrug out from my suit jacket and undo my top button. It's hardly freedom, but it's at least in the right direction. A lot of other people do this too, I've realised. Professionality doesn't really have to be maintained for very long, as long as you're sure that your boss isn't still watching from where they're still working and seeing your standards slip.

Of course, none of this matters if I knew I was gonna vanish.

The point is, in a city this busy, I may as well be invisible anyway. But that doesn't mean I thought it was actually gonna happen to me. I didn't know humans could just phase out of existence, but if this nightmare is actually happening then it seems they very well can. Or, I'm gonna wake up and like the ending of a bad book I'm gonna realise it was all just a dream, though it feels too much real for that now that I'm standing in front of the mirror staring at the point where I think my face used to be.

Another guy walks into the bathroom of the shitty bar I ducked into, watching me stare at my face in the mirror.

"Woah, buddy. You take a little too much?" He asks, looking at me, clearly not seeing what I am in the mirror. "Get away from that mirror, call yourself a friend or a taxi, and get home." He presses a crumpled $10 bill into my hands. The cash is enough to make me shut up about defending my honour and own sobriety. I only manage a strangled you can see me?, which earns me another pitying glance and the offer of him buying me a cup of water.

I get out of there as fast as I can, only halfway into a crush of people down the street before it hits me.

He saw me.

He spoke to me.

I turn around immediately, struggling between the press of bodies, club-goers in skimpy outfits, businesspeople in creased suits, tourists bundled into large bulky coats, twisting my body.

"Wait!" I yell, and no one shoots me a second glance, though I can't tell if that's because this is New York, or because they can't hear. But, even the tourists huddled into a sphere nearby, shirts emblazoned with that I <3 NY logo don't even turn, and I know its the latter.

The guy is still sat at the bar, jacket slung over his shoulders as he nurses another whiskey, speaking seemingly to himself all alone. I burst in, to no one's surprise, and bang my fist down on the bar next to him.

"You," I pant. "You can see me?"

He looks up. "Yeah, I can," he replies without a hint of puzzlement. "What's up?"

"And the others can't?"

He pauses then, glass poised just below his lips mid-sip. "Oh, buddy. You don't know?"

"Know what?" I snap at his tone. "What don't I know?"

"You...you're not here anymore, man." He places his glass down as if to punctuate the sentence.

"What?" I sputter. "But you--I was high--"

"Yeah, I thought, y'know. You overdosed."

"Well, I didn't," I stammer, a renewed sense of hurt pride flooding me as I defend my honour against this junkie accusation. "I'm not--"

"You're dead, Marcus."

Wait. How does he know my name?