You rest your warm hand on my thigh. It is supposed to be comforting; a reassuring touch from a loving parent.

I try not to flinch, but I do so anyway. Your warmth feels nothing like what my friends spoke of. Instead, your warmth is but a reminder of a time when hands lingered to places they should never have. Your warmth is a trail of molten lava, slowly making its way to my heart, only to leave behind disgust in the form of ashes.

The ashes, even when blown away, somehow always find a way to return.

We used to sit next to each other in class. You were always cracking jokes, and I was always laughing even though they weren’t funny. Your jokes might have been terrible, but your laughter was the best. I wish I could hear it again.

I bet you didn’t think I’d notice the scars littering your skin, or the frequent trips to the band room during breaks to settle some “things”. You always took too long, and your eyes were always too red.

I also knew about that timer on your phone, counting down the days till your… departure. You were always looking at it, as if that would somehow make time go by faster. Was that what kept you going every day?

I never knew what to do. Was there anything I could have said to give you hope? Would hugs have taken away your sleepless nights? Or maybe I was just a coward all along, afraid that anything I did would have turned out to be futile. Then, I would only feel more helpless.

Did you know that I knew so much? Do you hate me for not doing anything? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I miss you. I don’t know how to move on. I can’t sleep. I hate waking up. Please, please, be in a better place where you no longer hurt. I'm always thinking about you. I love you.

this is the end.

i’m done giving up on myself.

i’m done staying up at night, wondering what it means to live.

i’m done running away.

i deserve every little bit of happiness in this world.

i deserve every little bit of love i’ll receive in my lifetime.

i deserve it all.

this is the end,

and also a new beginning.

“What’s your name, mister?”

The little girl gazes up at him. He wordlessly pulls her to her feet. His hand grasps hers tightly.

“Your eyes are far too pure to be tainted by this world.”

“What does that mean, mister? Oh, and your name!”

They walk away. Her tiny feet go pitter-patter against the asphalt.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

Silence.

“I don’t know…”

“Does that upset you?”

A nod.

“I don’t know mine too.”

They walk away once more. Her tiny feet dance excitedly against the asphalt. There is no pitter-patter.

The little girl does not hear the wail of the ambulance behind her.

She does not see the paramedic pulling her body out of the wreckage.

They walk into the light.