He may look the same, he may sound like him, but he’s no longer who he used to be.

Suicide is just a moment.

For a moment , it doesn’t matter that you’ve got people who love you and the sun is shining and there’s a movie coming out that you’ve been dying to see. It hits you all of a sudden that nothing is ever going to be okay, ever, and you kind of dare yourself:
Is this it? You start thinking that you’ve known this was coming all along, but you don’t know if today’s going to be the day. And if you think about it too much, it’s probably not. But you dare yourself. You pick up a knife and press it gently to your skin, you stare out a nineteenth-story window and you think, i could just do it. I could just do it.

And most of the time, you look at the height and freak out, or you wonder about the mess your blood is gonna make.

And the moment’s over.

You think about how sad it would’ve been if you never got to see that movie, and you look at your mom and wonder who would’ve taken care of her if you had gone. And you go back to normal. But you keep it there in your mind. Even if you never take yourself up on it, it gives you a kind of comfort to know, the day is yours to choose. You tuck it away safely in your brain like sour candy tucked in your cheek. The puckering memory it leaves behind, the rough pleasure of running your tongue over its strange terrain, is exactly the same.

Like the bile rising in my throat, perhaps she should let herself fall.

The day was hers to choose, and perhaps in the moment when she look down, the world, her life, spread out below her, perhaps she chose to plunge toward it headlong. Perhaps she saw before her a lifetime of walking on the ruined earth and chose instead, a single fucking moment in the air.

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