She knew he had seen her just fine, standing at the edge, arms wide open, eyes closed. She was glad he had not come to her, glad for the heroism he lacked and the empathy he did not have. 

She knew he had looked on, wondering what her next move was. He had watched her legs shaking and her hair blowing in the wind. She was glad that he had walked away; glad he had never bothered to look back.

She had taken the leap. She had fallen; fallen on to the soft clouds of relief. She had walked through the slowly lifting fog of pain. She had survived the haziness of repressed memories. It felt good. She was glad he was not a better man.