TW: Suicide
Zoe slouched at her desk, the weight of her backpack tugging on her shoulders even though it had been resting on the ground for the past hour. Her notebook lay open in front of her, but the pages were bare, except for a few doodles at the margins—angry scribbles, jagged lines, and stickfigures. She chewed on the end of her pencil, staring out the window of the classroom at the dull sky, streaked with hues of orange and gray. The sun was setting.
The muffled sounds of her classmates talking in groups behind her barely registered. Her world felt muted lately, had someone had placed a thick, suffocating veil over everything? She used to care about what they thought, how she appeared.
She glanced at the clock. Two minutes until the bell rang. Another day survived. Barely.
"Hey, Zoe."
The voice pierced through her haze, and she turned her head slowly. It was Hannah, her only remaining friend, though even that felt strained these days. She wore a bright smile, but it never quite reached her eyes.
"You wanna walk home together?"
Zoe blinked, shaking her head. "No, I think I'm staying back. Gotta talk to Mr. Carson about... something."
Hannah's smile faltered for a moment, then she nodded. "Alright. Don't stay too late, though. It's getting cold."
Zoe didn't respond, just watched as Hannah picked up her bag and walked out of the classroom, waving half-heartedly. It wasn't the cold that bothered her—Minnesota winters were bone-chilling, sure, but she'd grown up with them. It was the silence that came afterward.
Mr. Carson, their history teacher, was sitting at his desk, grading papers with furrowed brows. He looked up briefly as the last of the students trickled out, then returned to his work. Zoe remained seated, watching him, the words she wanted to say caught in her throat like a tangle of barbed wire.
„Nu mă ascultați, domnule profesor?"
But she didn't speak. Her mouth remained closed, dry, a desert of unsaid words. He wouldn't understand anyway. The bell finally rang, and the sound seemed to reverberate through the room, amplifying the hollow pit in her stomach. Zoe slowly stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She made her way to Mr. Carson's desk, moving as if her body were on autopilot.
"Zoe?" His voice was gentle, cautious, as if he sensed something was wrong. "Everything okay?"
She stopped in front of him, fingers curling tightly around the strap of her backpack. Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud and insistent, but she kept her gaze on the floor, too scared to meet his eyes. What would she say? Where would she even start?
„De obicei îmi petrec zilele îmbolnăvindu-mă"
Her chest tightened. She felt sick, not in the way you get with the flu or a cold, but something deeper. A soul-sickness that gnawed at her from the inside out. Every day felt like she was crumbling, falling apart bit by bit, and no one seemed to notice.
"I..." she began, but the words lodged in her throat. She couldn't do it.
"Never mind," she muttered instead, turning on her heel.
"Zoe, wait—" Mr. Carson began, but she was already walking toward the door. She could feel his eyes on her back, a mixture of concern and confusion, but it didn't matter. She didn't need his pity. She needed something else. Something more.
„Lăsați-mă să mă retrag de la școală, domnule profesor!"
Her steps quickened as she left the building, her breath fogging in the cold evening air. The sky was fully orange now, casting long shadows on the empty streets. She trudged through the parking lot, the ground icy beneath her feet. Cars lined up, headlights flicking on one by one as students and teachers alike prepared to leave.
Zoe walked past them all, her heart pounding harder with every step. There was something pulling her forward, something she couldn't explain. She didn't even realize where she was going until she found herself standing at the bridge.
The old railroad bridge had always been a place of quiet for her. Hidden from the bustling roads of the small town, it stretched over a dried-up creek bed, the rusted rails long abandoned. It was a place no one else went, a relic left to decay. But for Zoe, it was more than that. It was where she could disappear, even for just a little while.
The wind bit at her cheeks as she stepped onto the bridge, her breath coming in short bursts, like she was racing against something invisible. She moved to the center of the bridge and sat down on the cold metal, her legs dangling off the side. The sun dipped lower in the sky, and the oranges turned to purples, the kind of twilight that always felt too beautiful.
„Tu, vopsit în portocaliu, te vei topi în întuneric în curând."
Her thoughts felt scattered, broken fragments of sentences and emotions swirling together. She was tired. So tired. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn't fix. The weight of everything pressed down on her until she felt like she might burst. She pulled her knees up to her chest, burying her face in them, trying to steady her breathing.
„Înțeleg că răbdarea este importantă în viață."
But patience didn't feel like enough. It never had.
She remembered when things were simpler. When the biggest worry she had was whether Hannah would let her borrow her notes in class. When life had color, when days didn't bleed into each other. But now, every morning felt like a battle just to get out of bed. She thought of the way her parents looked at her—worried but helpless. They didn't understand. How could they?
Zoe bit her lip, hard enough to taste blood. She hated this. Hated the way it hurt, the way everything hurt. The constant gnawing at her insides, telling her she wasn't good enough, that she was a burden, that she was—
„Mă doare..."
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears prick at the edges. She was tired of crying. Tired of being weak. She just wanted it all to stop.
The bridge creaked beneath her, the sound blending with the distant hum of cars passing far off in the town. The wind howled through the empty steel beams, like a voice calling her, beckoning her forward. She stared down at the drop beneath her. It wasn't far—twenty feet, maybe thirty. But she wasn't thinking about the fall. She wasn't thinking about anything at all.
„De aici nu mai există cale de întoarcere."
The thought was sudden, sharp, like the realization of something inevitable. She wasn't afraid. Not anymore. Maybe this was what she had been moving toward all along, without even knowing it. The orange sky had melted into darkness now, the last sliver of sun disappearing below the horizon. It was so quiet. So still.
„A deveni impulsiv este decizia corectă."
Her body moved before her mind could process it, one foot slipping off the edge, then the other. She leaned forward, arms outstretched like she was floating, her breath caught in her throat as gravity took hold.
For a moment, everything was weightless.
Then the world rushed up to meet her.
Zoe's vision blurred, her ears ringing with the rush of wind. She saw flashes—her mother's face, the laughter of her classmates, the orange glow of the sunset. All of it slipping away, fading into the cold, unforgiving dark. She hit the ground with a sickening thud, pain lancing through her body, but it was distant, almost numb.
Her mind flickered, consciousness fading like a dying lightbulb. She lay there, staring up at the now-black sky, the stars twinkling faintly above her.
„Noapte bună."
And then there was nothing.
