It came at midnight, barely.
His message.
The one I had wanted. The one I had needed.
And yet, it was not enough.
"You don't have to endure this alone."
"I care. Even if I'm not sure how to say it correctly. Don't vanish." I read it twice. And once more. My fingers shook. Not out of fear, but because it caused something to hurt — deep, abrupt, piercing.
As a reminder that someone was still waiting.
Still waiting.
Still thinking I might come back from this.
He looked at me.
And I resented that it wasn't enough.
Not because his words did not matter.
But because they came too late.
I'd already written the rest of the letter.
Already folded up the pages. Already gauged the timing.
This was not a one-night decision. It was incremental — like the creeping frost over a window until it's everywhere. Until you can't look outside.
I sat there, phone clutched in my hand, his message on the black screen.
And cried.
More than I have in months.
But not because I've changed my mind.
Because I wanted to.
I wrote a reply. I don't know why.
"I'm sorry."
Hesitated.
You alone did look. That was more than I can express."
Paused once more.
"But I am exhausted. And I don't know how to return."
I did not send.
I simply stared at the flashing cursor until the screen dimmed and only my face was left staring back.
In the morning, I will be a note.
A memory.
A silence.
And maybe then the world will hear.
Sometimes people don't want to die. They just want the pain to stop. But when it's all you've known, stopping feels like the only mercy left.