“I have a lot going on, OK?” I yank my hand away, and he pulls his up as if to protect himself.
“So talk to me about it.” He crosses his arms.
“I can’t!” My voice cracks.
He steps back, his frown deepening. “I don’t understand. I thought you liked me.”
“I do! I do.” I’m crying now. “I just ...can’t do this.”
His face goes completely flat and still. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not...” I swallow. “I’m not ...good.”
“What are you talking about?”
I look away, clutching one hand in the other. The hallway around us is emptying, and a few people glance at us curiously as they hurry out. I could just run away right now, run away, out of the building, down the street, and before the movie can play, I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” His voice is raw with confusion. I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, head tilted, eyebrows furrowed. If I didn’t look crazy to him before, I definitely do now. I just talked to myself in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t talk about this. I have to go.” I turn, hurrying down the hall, but he follows me.
“Sid, what’s going on? Wekissedyesterday, and now you’re acting like...” He trails off. I speed up, but he keeps pacewith me. “Sid, talk to me. I like you. I want to date you and shit.”
“Forrest, please.” I push the door open with as much force as I can, taking the steps down to the sidewalk. “Just leave me alone.”
He stops, and the distance between us lengthens, pulling at me like a rubber band as I barrel toward the parking lot and the street beyond it.
“Is that really what you want?” he calls out.
I don’t respond. I just keep walking.
I’m so afraid. The street is filled with cars. It would be so easy to step out in front of one of them. I hug the opposite side of the sidewalk, trail a hand along the wall of the grocery store that sits next to the street, its painted concrete exterior cold and wet. It’s raining. I have to stay as far away from the street as possible, or I might lose control and step off. A big truck would take me out for sure. Or I could pick an SUV, that might do it—Idontwanttodie—I have to get home somehow, but if I go into the train station, I might jump in front of the train. The grocery store is gone and my hand hits branches, a hedge of small bushes in front of a boxy condo. It hurts. A truck hitting me would hurt. But just for a second, before I hit the ground—stop—head smacking the pavement—stopidontwannadie—the train station’s mouth opens up and I walk into it, scan my fare card on autopilot, take the escalator down, down, down into its belly. I can’t stop. Am I actually under my own control oris this other thing, this something wrong, taking over? The train station is crowded. If I jumped everyone would see, they’d scream, someone would rush to the train, beating on its side, but it would be too late, I’d—STOP STOP STOP! THIS ISN’T REAL, IT’S NOT HAPPENING, THIS ISN’T REAL, IT’S NOT HAPPENING, THIS ISN’T REAL, IT’S NOT HAPPENING—back against the metal side of the escalator as the train roars into the station, eyes shut as it comes to a stop, step inside where it’s safe, I’m safe, grab the metal pole but that’s too close to the doors and if I’m too close to the doors I might slip out when they open again and run to the front and jump on the tracks as the train pulls away and walk to the back of the car, the last row, an open seat, and someone sits beside me, thank god, I can’t push past this person to get out, but what if I do?
What if I do?
What if I do?
What if I do?
What if I do?
At home, I go straight to my room. There are so many ways for me to hurt myself in the house. Knives in the kitchen. Medication in the bathroom cabinet. How did I never think about this before? How is it so easy to die by suicide? I always thought it was this big deal, this extreme thing, but now that I’ve had the thought I can’t unthink it. Did I feel this way before and just didn’t know? I don’t want to die, so why am I thinking about all the ways I could? I don’t want to die, but what if I lose control and accidentally kill myself?
I get under the blankets and wrap myself up tight, phone clutched in my hand. I want to call someone, anyone, but I don’t want them to worry, or think that I’ve lost it completely. And who am I supposed to call? Not Dad, that’s for sure, and I don’t want to freak out Mom or Shar. I already drove Forrest away. Jayden’s probably so excited about his newcrush, and my problems will totally kill the vibe. Makayla is Jayden’s twin, so if I call them, then he’ll know too. And Anna—
Anna.
I open our text thread. The last thing she sent me was a meme, and looking at it, I smile. Anna’s such a good friend.Hey,I type.
The ellipses pop up instantly.Hiiiieeee
I’m—
I delete and try again.
Something is—
No, not that.
