Still Here

41

Suddenly, I hear a car behind me.

You have to jump, I think, Now.

But I don't even have the courage for that.

I kick the bench, hating myself more than I ever thought possible.

I feel an arm on my shoulder and turn. Michael waits, looking terrified and pale.

"How did you find me?" I ask, but I'm crying so hard, I'm afraid he won't understand me.

But he does. Miraculously.

"Jasmine called. She said she couldn't follow you, but someone needed to. I came as soon as I could."

His words are enough to make me fall apart again. I tremble as I cry.

"Why don't you come away from the edge?" he asks, his voice soothing.

He coaxes me into him. I lose myself in his arms. "It's okay," he whispers. "It's okay." He repeats himself, over and over again, until the words no longer bear any real meaning.

They calm me all the same.

My sobs turn into silent tears that become hiccups and ragged breathing. We sit on the bench, my body pressed against his.

When I can breathe again, he finally asks, "Why did you come here?"

"I just . . . couldn't do it anymore."

"Do what anymore?" he asks.

I look at him, at last, my eyes still full of tears. "Keep losing people . . . and pretending that I was fine. That it wasn't destroying me."

"What happened to you?" he asks.

I bite my lip with a heavy sigh and think, If not now, then when?

I tell him everything. That I had a sister named Cara and we used to eat at Kev's Diner and play tag with Porter. That she killed herself after an argument I don't even remember why we had. That I planned on killing myself years later, but he hit me with his car and I never got to. That now he's here, in that same fucking car, saving me all over again.

He's quiet, only occasionally nodding to let me know that he's still listening. I break down multiple times, but I keep talking and he keeps paying attention.

When I'm finished, I find myself tracing Cara's name with my finger, on the bench I carved it into all those years ago.

Michael doesn't say anything for a long time, but then he takes my hand carefully. "You could have told me this anytime," he says. "You could have told anybody."

"I thought that I didn't need to. I thought I'd be okay. I thought that being normal, with friends and everything might help. And it did, for a while. But then . . . it didn't." I'm so ashamed that I look away, afraid he's going to tell me I'm being an idiot or something.

"You can't just flip a switch and suddenly be okay, you know," he says softly. "That's ridiculous. You have to become okay. And sometimes it takes a long time." He squeezes my hand. "And that's okay."

The way he's looking at me gives me something I haven't had in a very long time. It even causes a hint of a smile to play on my tear-stained lips.

It's hope.