Jump

You sit on the edge of the cliff, staring down at the rocks, at the sea swirling and crashing against them. The sun set an hour ago. Now the air all around you is inky. But you stare out as though you can still see the horizon.

You've lost count of the number of hours you've sat here, waiting.

Today.

Yesterday.

Last week.

I know—I've added them up. I've watched you waiting for him to come back, deep down knowing he won't. Deep down knowing he's lost down there, trapped in the wreckage. I've counted every hour, and been here beside you.

You take your phone from your pocket and dial your voicemail. You listen to his voice, his final message. It's nothing special—he wanted you to buy milk on your way home. You smile, knowing how much he hated leaving messages. Usually he texted, so he obviously expected you to answer the call. He um'ed for a moment, then hung up, without even saying goodbye.

That's it. That's all you have. He never even said goodbye.

You listen again, dejected. You look like you're going to talk to him, but in the end you drop the phone from your ear and listen to his voice floating out across the cliffs. Get milk, he tells you. You hate milk.

You glance down over the edge. I sense your fear and confusion, your disorientation as the sea swirls. You can't judge the distance—it seems like all you need to do is take just one step and you'll be swimming in the sea. Just one step, and you can be with him again.

With your growing desire to jump, I am increasingly corporeal, until I am a faint outline, although barely discernible to you.

I don't move, don't make myself known. I simply sit next to you and wait until the point you know you can't go on. I'll wait until you resolve that today's the day you're going to do it. I'll leave it until that final moment, that point beyond all doubt, and I'll take your arm and pull you back.