Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. They all belong to Jonathan Larson. Please don't sue.

Author's Note: I'm not sure if I'm entirely satisfied with this fic, but I don't know what to do to make it better. Review please?

Mark smiled and waved goodbye to his friends, then shut the door casually. The second the lock clicked, he slumped against the cold hardwood floor and let himself fall away into the emptiness. His world had always been devoid of much of anything, but now this pure blankness had engulfed him and he'd lost all hope of even wanting to escape. Tears spilled over as fast as they filled his eyes. He couldn't stand this anymore.

Slowly but purposefully, he made his way to the small door in the corner. Numb fingers unlocked and opened it and numb feet shuffled through the doorway into the cool night air. He stared over the edge of the balcony and seconds later he found himself on the outside of the railing, staring down. Incoherent thoughts ran through his head before a rational one finally surfaced; he should go back in. At least write them a note; they should know why. He clenched his jaw bitterly, wondering why they didn't know already. Was it his fault? Did he push them away? Maybe he should have just come out and told them.

But he wasn't an actor. He knew the pain showed in his eyes no matter how big his fake, pasted on smile got. Did they just not take the time to look? Was that the answer—they just didn't care? And once again, he had to wonder—was that his fault?

He hated questions that he didn't know the answers to. He hated life, he hated being second or third on everyone's list. Sometimes he just wanted someone, even for a little while. Once the realization had dawned on him that it would never happen, not for him, his life had become a living hell once again.

It had started so simply. Roger came home one day, barely able to keep his news inside long enough to greet his roommate. The band was going to be in a showcase, and he was just sure it would be their big break. They would be seen by everyone who mattered. And they were, and they signed a record contract, and the wheels of change were once again set in motion. Until one night—one terrible night—Mark came home to find Roger packing his bags. They—the band—were moving to LA, he said. Mimi was coming with them. And with this announcement, the unspoken apology; but you're not, sorry, too bad, tough luck, you'll learn to deal. Because that was what they always thought; oh, it's just Mark. He's strong, he'll survive. He's never broken down, he's always been the support.

And he had been. When April died, he was the one who stood by and made sure Roger ate, made sure he took his AZT. He was the backbone. And he couldn't show his pain, or his hurt, because he knew if he did he'd end up breaking down and bringing Roger crashing down with him. So he stood by and watched while Roger moped, while he fought his addiction, and later, while he found Mimi and found his happiness and left Mark waiting alone in the loft. Waiting to remind him to do things he'd already remembered, waiting to comfort him when he cried tears that never fell. Waiting for nothing, it seemed.

Angel. He couldn't forget Angel. Her death was all it took to push him over the edge. It happened so slowly he didn't even realize it at first. But soon he was dangling by one hand, slipping slowly and falling away. And as he did, and as the tears poured down and the doors slammed and his beloved camera crashed against the wall, he wondered, why hadn't someone been there to catch him, to pull him back up, to hold him and comfort him and tell him it was all going to be okay? Because there was no one, because they all had priorities that no longer included him. Everyone surrounded Collins and helped him and loved him, and Mark knew that was the right thing to do. So he came and he talked and he hugged and he ignored the pain inside because it wasn't supposed to be important. And he watched Maureen comfort Joanne, and Joanne comfort Maureen. And then he came home and watched Roger comfort Mimi, and Mimi comfort Roger.

It was all the same, always the same. He was Mark. Just Mark. He'd come to wonder if that was his true given name. Who called? Oh, it was Just Mark. Did anyone come by while I was gone? Oh, Just Mark, he'll come back if it's important. Who isn't here? Umm, Just Mark. Go ahead and start. I'm sure he won't mind. But he did mind. He always minded, he never said anything. After all, he was Just Mark. Emotions were supposed to be kept on the inside.

He stared down at the beckoning ground, tears dripping freely off his face. He wanted so badly to just let go of everything, of his past, his fears, his loneliness……. the railing. Somehow he'd managed to assure himself that it was the solution to all his problems; so why did he still feel guilty? A deep sigh. If he went back in he figured he'd probably be too chicken to go back out again. But if he stayed out hanging from the balcony, he wouldn't be able to do it. So he went inside. He sat down and methodically took out a piece of paper and a pen. But as he pressed the tip of the pen down, he realized he had no idea what to say. 'My life is shit, I can't take it anymore, tell Roger I'll see him in hell?'

He rested his forehead against his palm and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, he was face to face with the ugly track marks that had been revealed on his arm. Shame filled his face, even though no one was there, and he lowered his eyes. He'd always promised himself—and Roger—that he'd never use drugs. Reminding Roger to take his AZT every day after his diagnosis was all he needed to make this decision. But Roger had broken countless promises. The promise he'd made long ago that he would never leave, and the tiny promises, little white lies here and there that he would call, or write, or something. Anything. The only reason promises were made was so they could be broken.

Then Mark remembered what Collins had said; he was going to drop by at six with something to eat. Mark glanced at his watch. Five fifty, Eastern Standard Time. A strange idea popped into his head. He could slit his wrists and then when Collins came . . Yeah, that sounded like a great plan. Get attention by attempting suicide. His clouded mind certainly thought it was a great idea.

Thirty minutes later he sat on the couch watching the blood slowly drip down his arms. Glazed eyes looked at the clock on the wall, but the time didn't register. He thought he heard the door open.

"Collins?" he mumbled. He turned to find the door was securely closed. I'm hallucinating, he thought with a chuckle that soon turned into a choked sob. And as the tears came, the realization came with them. He was going to die. And he didn't care. All he cared about was not having to care anymore. He briefly wondered if Roger, off in LA, would hear of his death and break down and realize that for once in his life Mark wasn't there to help him.

In the Life Café, Collins sat laughing with Maureen, Joanne, and several others. He glanced at his watch and remembered his promise to Mark. He apologized, gathered his coat, and headed toward the loft, no idea of what he was going to find. And somewhere, a promise was made, another was broken, and in New York City, Mark Cohen breathed his last breath. The scene ended, the lights went down, and the credits began to roll. In Los Angeles, Roger Davis was struck with the undeniable feeling that something was terribly wrong. Without thinking, he grabbed the phone in his apartment and dialed the number for the loft.

No answer.