A couple of years ago I had a best friend who I would do everything with, and he was always there for me. He had recently got quite sad a lot and stopped talking at school, but at the time I didn't really take much notice of it. One day when I was over at his house I saw it. It was like a black cloud hanging over him, and I didn't know what to do. I saw him cut that beautiful skin of his, and watch as the blood trickled from the cut. I was terrified and I didn't know what to do so I ran over to him, hugged him and said to him "please, stay strong". He smiled at me, his eyes full of tears. I knew it meant nothing but I was speechless. How could I have not noticed? Later on he told me he had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and that he wanted to tell me. He told me how worthless he was and how he hated his body. My eyes drifted down to look at my own fat body, and I understood him. I looked him in the eyes, and told him I was sorry, and grabbed his hand. I looked down and saw scars all down his arm. Fresh, and raw; another blade from his bedside table. A tear formed in my eye as I touched his wrist, "stay strong" I told him. He once again smiled back at me. But this time I could see how faded the smile was, as if it was washed of life. The next week we went out to the movies together. There we met a bunch of people from school. They didn't like us much and started whispering to each other as we passed by. I looked at him and could see he was getting anxious and wanted to leave. I grabbed him, said "stay strong" and walked over to them and said 'hi, you don't mind us being here do you?', they all murmured 'no' and we walked off. As we walked off I heard one of them say "what a freak", I pretended as though I didn't care and continued walking. He stared at me blankly and then smiled. But this time the colour seemed to be brought back to his lips. "I love you" he said me. I half smiled and grabbed his hand. "I love you too". I could see he wasn't sure if I was truly smiling. He was getting better, he told me he could feel it. I had helped him so much, and kept him strong; however I couldn't say the same for myself. "Stay strong" I told myself over and over again. I looked down at myself in the mirror and was disgusted, how could he love me? I reached into my drawer and pulled out one of his razors I had stolen from his bedside table. I looked at my wrist, staring at it, remembering what his wrist looked like trickling with blood. I shook my head, no, I thought to myself. I needed to stay strong for him, he needed me. I had to push back the pain. I am okay, I am fine, I'm fine. But I wasn't. The next day, he came over and found me lying on my bed crying. He wrapped his arms around me and stayed there for a while. He looked me firm in the eyes, staring into my blue eyes. He was still holding me in his arms afraid to let go. He pushed the hair out of my eyes and gulped, "show me". I looked up at him confused, so he repeated, "please show me". "Why" I asked back. I knew that he had realised his razor was missing. "I need to know how many times you needed me and I wasn't there", a tear formed in his eye. I pulled back my sleeve and he looked at my wrist, shocked. He stared at my skin and read aloud the words I had written on my wrist, "Stay strong"
