When she sat next to me at the coffee shop, I noticed the scars that ran up and down the underside of her arm that peeked out between the large number of bracelets that gathered at her wrist. I knew her as only as an acquaintance, a friend of a friend who I’d talked to a few times. “Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?” I asked, keeping my eyes looking ahead as I awkwardly sipped my coffee, bridging the gap of silence. It may have been an absurd and rude, but that was just the type of personality I had.
“Excuse me, what?” she asked, clearly surprised and upset. “Why would you say something like that?”
She never seemed close to anyone, never smiled. I felt like whenever I saw her, whenever she spoke, she was a ghost, no purpose or willpower. “I don’t know, I mean, I feel like you aren’t happy with anything, but you deem your life worth leading?” I asked, still not looking at her, but I could feel the seat cushion rise as she got up.
“You’re right, I do,” I heard her say as her voice faded due to her increasing distance.
That night she killed herself.