It's Not a Cure

One: 3 am phone calls

The worst thing about depression is that there's no love to it. Love doesn't cure depression. At least, not in reality.
Steven has been dealing with it for quite some time. He tells me he doesn't really remember when. It just appeared. He tells me he imagines himself jumping off something and flying.
He never tells me where he would fly. If I asked, he would smile and say, "anywhere better than this shit hole."
I met Steven after my third year of secondary school. I've known him for three years.
Three years of calls at 3 am telling me he has his phone in one hand, a razor in another. He asks me to talk to him. And I do.
I talk to him about my day, because I know how much he hates the "things will get better" talk. He hates when people say it's fine. He says it's like lying.
I tell him about my childhood as I get into my car and drive to his apartment. I have a spare key to his house, as he does mine. When I walk in he is usually in the bathroom, curled up beside the shower, sobbing.
I don't hang up until I'm at least in the same room with him. I kneel down next to him and hug him. He sobs into my shoulder, and after some time, he calms down enough to through the razor out the window and lay down in the bedroom.
I don't fall asleep. I don't leave. I crouch down near the door, because if I leave, I know he'll call again.
Steven has only been to therapists in and out. His mother never was able to afford it. He says he doesn't have enough money to provide one.
He has a jar filled with money. I've seen it in his closet. It has a tape around it saying "for help". I actually put in at least two dollars everytime I come over.