The wind whips across my face as I stare down at the dark water below. At this height, the surface looks almost solid—black glass stretching endlessly beneath the midnight sky. I wonder if it would feel that way when I hit it. They say it's like concrete from this height. Quick. Final.

      My hands grip the cold metal railing of Highland Bridge, knuckles white with tension. The same bridge I've driven across hundreds of times, never giving it a second thought. The same bridge where Casey Miller wrapped his car around a pole last year. Everyone called it an accident. I wonder if it was.

      Funny how different things look when you're planning to die.

      Three hours ago, I was perfect Ethan Carter. Star quarterback with a full ride to State. Perfect grades, perfect smile, perfect life. The golden boy who could do no wrong. Now I'm just tired. So fucking tired of being perfect.

      My phone buzzes in my pocket for the seventh time tonight—probably Coach Reynolds checking why I missed evening practice. Or Dad, wanting to know why my calculus grade dropped to an A-minus. Maybe Mom, with another passive-aggressive reminder about college applications. Always wanting more, more, more until there's nothing left of me to give.

      I don't check it.

      The last message I read was from Dad: "We need to discuss your performance." Like I'm one of his employees, not his son. Like throwing for 300 yards last game wasn't enough because I missed that one pass in the fourth quarter. Like my 4.2 GPA isn't enough because "Harvard doesn't accept almost perfect."

      Instead, I focus on my breathing. In and out. The way my therapist taught me, before I stopped going. Before I started flushing the pills down the toilet every morning while my parents thought I was getting better.

      Better.

      What a joke.

      The pills were supposed to fix everything but just made me feel hollow. At least now I feel something, even if it's just this crushing weight in my chest.

      The metal barrier isn't particularly high. One push, one moment of courage—or cowardice, depending on who you ask—and it'll be over. No more expectations. No more disappointment. No more pretending to be the person everyone needs me to be.

      I think about the note I left. Short. Simple. "I'm sorry I couldn't be enough." Let them figure out what that means. Let them wonder if they could have done something different. Maybe they'll realize you can only push someone so far before they break.

      "You know what's tragic?"

      The voice startles me so badly I almost fulfil my plan right then and there. My hands clench the railing as I whip around to face the intruder.

      A girl around my age sits cross-legged on the sidewalk a few feet away, casually unwrapping what appears to be an ice cream sandwich. Her dark hair falls in messy waves around her face, and she's wearing an oversized sweater that's seen better days. There's a small ink stain on the sleeve, and her boots are scuffed beyond repair.

      "What the hell?" I snap, heart still racing. "Where did you come from?"

      She takes a bite of her ice cream, completely unfazed by my tone. In the dim streetlight, I can see a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. "The tragic thing," she continues as if I hadn't spoken, "is that Neapolitan ice cream is fundamentally flawed."

      I stare at her, wondering if I'm hallucinating. Maybe those pills I stopped taking are having some weird withdrawal effect. Maybe I've already jumped and this is some strange purgatory. "What?"

      "Think about it." She gestures with her ice cream sandwich, sending a few drops of melted vanilla onto her jeans. She doesn't seem to notice. "Chocolate and vanilla? Classic combination. Strawberry and vanilla? Delicious. But chocolate and strawberry together?" She wrinkles her nose. "It's like they're fighting each other instead of complementing each other. And yet we keep making them share space in the same carton."

      "Are you crazy?" The words come out harsh, but I'm too confused to care. "I'm kind of in the middle of something here." I gesture vaguely at the railing, the water, my entire fucked-up situation.

      She tilts her head, dark eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. There's something knowing in that gaze, something that sees right through my perfect façade to the mess underneath. "Oh, I know exactly what you're in the middle of. That's why I brought ice cream." She pats the concrete beside her. "Come sit. I have another one."

      "I don't want ice cream. I want to be left alone." My voice cracks on the last word.

      "Yeah, that's not happening." She pulls another ice cream sandwich from a paper bag I hadn't noticed before. "I'm Riley, by the way. And you're Ethan Carter, though I guess you're probably tired of people knowing who you are."

      The fact that she knows my name isn't surprising—everyone at Highland College knows who I am. What surprises me is the way she says it, like it's just another name, not a legacy I'm failing to live up to. Not the name that's plastered across the back of a jersey or listed on every academic achievement board in the school.

      "How did you even know I was here?"

      She shrugs, the movement almost graceful in its carelessness. "I didn't. I come here sometimes when I can't sleep. Usually it's just me and the stars." She unwraps the second ice cream and holds it out. "But tonight it's us and the stars. And ice cream."

      "You're insane." But I find myself taking a step away from the railing. Just one. "You can't just sit here and eat ice cream with someone who's about to—" The words stick in my throat.

      "About to make a permanent solution to temporary problems?" Her voice is lighter than her words, but there's an edge to it now. Something sharp and knowing. "Watch me."

      Against my better judgment, I take another step back. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to annoy?"

      "Nope." She pops the 'p' sound. "My schedule is completely clear. And this ice cream is getting melty. Besides... you intrigue me."

      "I intrigue you," I repeat flatly.

      "Mm-hmm." She takes another bite of ice cream. "The great Ethan Carter, standing on a bridge at midnight. It's like the beginning of a really good story."

      "Or the end of one."

      "See?" She points at me with her ice cream. "Intriguing. Most people would have told me to fuck off by now."

      "I'm not most people."

      "Obviously." She says it like it's a compliment, not the burden it's always been. "So, are you going to tell me what brings Highland's golden boy to this particular bridge on this particular night?"

      "Why should I?"

      "Because I'm asking. Because I'm here. Because sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than someone who thinks they know you." She finishes her ice cream and carefully folds the wrapper into a tiny square. "And because you haven't jumped yet, which means some part of you wants to talk about it."

      The absurdity of the situation hits me all at once. Here I am, having the worst night of my life—the last night of my life—and some random girl is trying to share ice cream with me.

      "Why are you doing this?"

      For the first time, her smile falters slightly. "Because someone did it for me once." She pats the ground again. "Come on, Ethan. What's five minutes going to hurt? The bridge isn't going anywhere."

      I really should tell her to fuck off. Should climb over that railing and end this bizarre interaction along with everything else. Instead, I find myself sinking down beside her, careful to leave space between us.

      She hands me the ice cream sandwich. It's starting to melt, tiny drops of vanilla falling onto the wrapper.

      "I hate chocolate ice cream," I say, but I take a bite anyway.

      "Noted." She pulls out her phone and types something. "For future reference."

      "There won't be a future reference."

      "About that." She turns to face me fully, and suddenly her expression isn't quite so carefree. "I have a proposition for you."

      I raise an eyebrow. "I'm not interested in whatever you're selling."

      "Good thing I'm not selling anything then." She tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing a small star tattoo. "My birthday is in two months. November 15th, to be exact. Give me until then."

      "Give you what until then?"

      "Time." She crumples her ice cream wrapper into a tight ball. "Give me until my birthday to show you why you should stay. After that, if you still want to..." She glances at the railing. "Well, that's your choice. But give me these two months first."

      I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Why would I do that?"

      "Because you're still sitting here talking to me instead of jumping." Her bluntness makes me flinch. "Because you took the ice cream. Because what's two months in the grand scheme of things?" She stands up, brushing off her jeans. "And because I think you're curious about why some random girl would care whether you live or die."

      She's right, and that irritates me more than anything else she's said. I am curious. And she knows it.

      "Two months is a long time."

      "Not really." She holds out her hand to help me up. "Especially when you're not spending it alone."

      I stare at her outstretched hand. In the dim light of the street lamps, I can see old scars criss-crossing her wrist. She doesn't try to hide them.

      "What's the catch?"

      "No catch. Just one rule." Her hand stays steady. "You have to answer when I call. Day or night. And you have to be honest with me."

      "That's two rules."

      A small smile tugs at her lips. "So you can count. Good to know. Do we have a deal?"

      I should say no. Should tell her to leave me alone and let me do what I came here to do. But something in her eyes stops me. Something that looks a lot like understanding.

      "Until November 15th," I say finally, taking her hand. Her skin is cold from the ice cream.

      "Until November 15th," she agrees, pulling me to my feet. "Now come on. There's a 24-hour diner down the street that makes amazing milkshakes, and you look like you could use one."

      As she leads me away from the bridge, still talking about ice cream and milkshake combinations, I realize something. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about ending it all.

      I'm thinking about what flavour milkshake I want to try.

      And wondering what the hell I just agreed to.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of Reasons to Stay. It means the world to me that you've taken the time to dive into this story.

I'm excited to share that this book is fully completed, so you won't have to wait long to see where the journey leads. I'll be posting a new chapter daily until the very end. I can't wait for you to experience it all—every emotion, every twist, and ultimately, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Thank you for being here. Truly. Your support means everything. ♥

See you tomorrow for Chapter Two!

With love,
Rosy