A Letter for an Old Friend

I would tell you what would happen, that's what I would do.

You'll think about it all the time till it becomes what seems to be the only option. Every day you think about doing it and every day you feel horrible afterwards because it hurts a little more each time. For some reason you keep telling yourself that you're a burden or nobody loves you.

When your mother, friend, or even brother finds your body, they scream because they have no idea how you could be so unkind to yourself. They'll call the cops and beg them to save you, but you know that look on their face is because they don't have the heart to say that you're already dead.

Nothing makes sense to them and they wonder if it's because it's their fault. They wonder if you had left a note or something; anything to hold onto you for just a while longer. It's a long wait in the hospital, but they stay. They don't care how bad they smell, how late it is, or how hungry they are.

The thing is, there isn't just one person. There's two or three. Maybe a shy coworker who always kept a worry eye on you and wish they spoke up. Perhaps a mailman you saw every day and says "hi" in the morning during your walks because you were also a constant in their lives. These people worry and people worry because people care.

After some time, there's still confusion. They can't figure out why you did it and it's not because they couldn't think of a reason why. Maybe they didn't tell you they care enough, and how tragic it would be to know that they told you it all the time? Every greeting they made, how attentive they were to make sure there was enough food stocked in the refrigerator, or even a smile your way in hopes to see you give one back their way.

What happens is you get people angry, confused, and sad because they miss you. Even if they don't truly know you, that chance that people get with getting to know each other is lost. You are someone people think about, maybe not every minute, but often enough.