Seventeen

Chapter Four: Heartbeat

"Jesus, what happened to you?"

Aiden stood at my door, his eyes glassy, reflecting a turmoil that sent a chill down my spine. They held the weight of a thousand unshed tears, and his jeans clung to him, drenched and heavy, while his jacket and T-shirt were soaked through, as if he’d just emerged from a storm. Water droplets cascaded from his dark, tousled hair, tracing trails down his pallid cheeks, which were marred by a black eye that stood out starkly against his pale skin.

"I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, almost unnaturally calm.

"Yeah?" My heart raced. Where was this conversation headed? I wasn’t sure I was proud of what I said. Aiden could be a jerk, but then again, so could I. What right did I have to judge him?

"You were right. Every little shitty thing you said was true."

Okay? I took a deep breath, my chest tightening.

"I didn’t mean it," I stammered, the regret pooling in my stomach like a heavy stone. "I’m generally an unlikable person, so don’t take what I say seriously."

"It doesn’t matter," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. "I don’t deserve to live. In fact, I tried to drown myself. Turns out I’m a coward."

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. For a guy who just attempted to end his life, he spoke with an odd detachment, as if recounting a mundane anecdote rather than sharing a harrowing truth.

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. He was wet because he had tried to drown himself. He could have become just another statistic, a fleeting headline in an evening news report, but he stood here, with a heartbeat, and for some reason, that made me want to scream.

"Um..." I grappled for words, my mind a turbulent sea of confusion. What do you say to someone who just tried to kill themselves? "I’m sorry" felt inadequate, hollow, like a mere whisper in the storm of his despair.

"You don’t have to feel sorry for me, you know."

"I don’t feel sorry for you," I lied, but the words felt feeble, a flimsy shield against the truth. "You’re going to die eventually anyway. Today just wasn’t your day."

"Your tone sure makes me wish it was," he retorted, a hint of humor lacing his voice. "You have an exceptional talent for making me feel like shit, you know."

Yes, I knew. I made everyone who wasn’t my sister feel like shit. It was a twisted defense mechanism that allowed me to share the burden of my own inadequacies. I carried a darkness in my heart, and sometimes, I wondered if I wanted to let it go.

"And you have an incredible knack for complimenting me," I said, feigning a smile that felt foreign on my lips. It was my first smile of the day, and it felt weighty, like a small victory against the shadows.

"Right."

"So, why are you really here? Was it to make my already depressing life even more depressing by sharing the sordid details of your failed suicide? Or are you here to ask for tips on how to do it successfully next time?"

"No," he insisted, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. The moonlight glimmered in his eyes, illuminating the depths of his soul. It was a beautiful night, the moon casting a silvery glow that felt almost magical, and I couldn’t help but wish I were the moon—cool, untouchable, and serene.

"Then why are you here?" I absentmindedly slid my pinky along the frayed edge of my T-shirt, a nervous gesture that belied my feigned nonchalance.

"You, me—I want us to sing together."