Most people who die by suicide don’t actually want to die. They just want the pain to stop.

And you’ve been carrying that kind of pain for as long as you can remember. Not the kind anyone sees, not cuts or bruises, but a slow, invisible bleeding. Since you were little, there was always something clawing at you from the inside. You couldn’t explain it, not really. It was like having a head wound no one else could see, and every day you bled a little more while the world went on like you were fine.

You weren’t fine. You’ve never really been fine.

Depression became part of you early. Not a passing phase, not a sad spell, a shadow that moved in and stayed. Some days it felt quiet, distant, like maybe it had finally left. But it always found its way back in through the cracks, settling in your chest like smoke.

You’re still just so young, but you’ve felt older than your age for years. You’ve wrestled with your mind longer than most people even realize. There was a point you really thought you’d healed. You smiled more. Laughed even. But the truth is you never healed, you just learned how to distract yourself. How to keep moving fast enough so the darkness couldn’t catch up.

But it always does.

That feeling is back now. Heavier than before. And it’s eating you alive again.

And then there’s Nic.

Sweet, quiet Nic, the kind of boy who doesn’t ask for much but gives everything. You two got close in school, and eventually it turned into something more. You’ve been dating on and off for about a year, not because you don’t care, but because sometimes you just don’t have it in you to hold up your half of a relationship.

Still, he’s never made you feel like a burden. He never walked away.

He sees what others miss. The way your eyes go distant, the way your voice flattens, the way you shrink into yourself when it gets too loud in your head. And when that look crosses your face, the empty one, something in him kicks in. Protective, desperate, terrified.

Now you’re in his room again. His bed is soft, his arms wrapped around you like he’s trying to hold your pieces together with sheer force. One hand is stroking your hair, slow, gentle, twirling strands between his fingers like he knows it calms you.

His voice is low, right near the crown of your head. “It’s okay. I promise. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Then he leans in, eyes closed, nose pressed against your hair, breathing you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And for a moment, in that quiet, it almost feels like you’re safe.