I was just walking along the side of the bridge. It was 4 a.m., and I was on my usual early morning walk through the cold, foggy mist when I stopped. The silence was thick—no cars, no people, just the sound of the wind brushing past the railings.

That’s when I saw her.

A girl, maybe a year or two younger than me, was standing at the edge of the bridge. I mean, right on the edge, toes almost hanging off. She wore a thin, baggy jacket, zipped all the way up like she was trying to hide inside it. Her long hair was tied back in a messy ponytail that looked like it hadn’t been touched in days.

A white bandage covered her nose, and the same kind of bandages were wrapped tightly around a few of her fingers. There was a split on the side of her lower lip, slightly dried but still raw. Her eyes were red and swollen, like she’d been crying long before I showed up. She wasn’t shaking, but she looked exhausted, like someone who had nothing left.

She stared down at the water, unmoving.

I didn’t need to ask what was going through her mind. I knew. And I knew I couldn’t just walk past and let her end her life like this.

So I took a breath and stepped toward her—slowly, carefully, like I might scare her off if I moved too fast.