DISCLAIMER: THIS STORY AND ITS CHARACTERS ARE ALL FICTIONAL. THIS DOES NOT, IN ANY WAY, ROMANTICIZE OR SUPPORT THE ACT OF SUICIDE. IF YOU NEED ANY HELP OR ARE HAVING TROUBLE WITH YOUR MENTAL HEALTH, PLEASE CONTACT A TRUSTED PERSON OR A MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONAL.

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"So, why'd you do it?" Ethan asks.

"What?" I absentmindedly ask him what he meant.

"I said; why'd you do it. Why are you Here?"

"You want me to tell you how I got Here?"

"Yeah. How?"

"I slit my wrists vertically, that's what happened. I didn't make it to the hospital, so I guess I got what I wanted."

He chuckles. "I can see your wrists, you know. They don't give us enough clothing to hide our scars." His hand subconsciously scratches the back of his neck; which was scarred from a rope all around. "Why'd you kill yourself?"

I looked at him and he was looking at the sky. It was a heavy question. He's been the only person who talked to me casually ever since I arrived Here. Here: the place where those who take their own lives go. I only arrived two days ago, but he's never told me how long he's been Here.

"So?"

I didn't realize I've been quiet for a while.

"I don't care if you don't want to tell me, I can't do anything either whether you want to tell me or not. But I see no sense in hiding it, everybody who's for you Here knows." He's talking about the people working Here. "So, tell me," He lays on the grass then looks at me.

"I didn't know what to do." I muttered.

"What?"

I take a deep breath. "Life was good. I was a star student, I had good friends, my family was happy. Heck, I had a really nice girlfriend." I smiled at the thought of Hazel. "But I didn't know what to do."

"Sounds like your life was hell," he sarcastically says. It's one of the things that I like about Ethan, he says what he thinks and doesn't sugarcoat it. "My life was filled with drugs, shouting, abuse and outcasts." He snickers. "Pretty cliché, my mom left, dad abused me, had me selling drugs, kids made fun of me, I fight them and end up getting beat up bad; just your normal suicidal boy." He shrugs. "My story aside, please continue yours."

I roll my eyes at his usual habit of telling his own story in the midst of me telling mine. It's annoying, but the kind of annoying where you laugh and you roll your eyes.

"I didn't know what to do." I repeat the third time. "I knew life was good, but it didn't feel like it."

"Mhm?" He looks at me and I look away from him.

"You know when you know something, but you don't feel it? That's how my life felt. Although everything looked so happy, I even saw myself happy when I'm around all of them (the people I love). But there's always pain in everything. Everything was so hard. And heavy. And cold. And numb." I pause for three seconds (I know, I counted.) "Everything I did felt worthless. I felt worthless. I felt like I don't deserve the kind of good life that I had; that there was something I need to do but couldn't do it because I didn't know what it is."

I look at him and he looks away. There was a moment of silence, but I knew he understood what I mean, so I continue.

"I keep trying to do things, you know? I try several new things hoping that it would fix me or something that's making me feel that way. But something's always missing and it kills me." I feel my dead heart grow heavy as I say all this.

"So you killed yourself."

Both of us aren't looking at each other anymore.

"I'm sorry, I know my life is--was just a lame excuse to kill myself compared to yours."

"We have different-sized hearts that can only carry so much." His answer surprised me. "We also have different pains and levels of pain tolerance." He chuckles ironically. "So, just like how four-eighths is equal to a half," we look at each other. "there's no actual measurement for a qualification for anyone's suffering to be acceptable."

And with that, his presence fades.

~