Jasmine Warga

The problem with suicide, which most people don’t realize, is that it’s really hard to follow through. I know, I know. People are always yammering on and on about how “suicide is the coward’s way out.” And I guess it is—I mean, I am giving up, surrendering. Running away from my black hole of a future, preventing myself from growing into the person I’m terrified of becoming. But just because it’s cowardly doesn’t guarantee it’s going to be easy.

He’s no longer the person I want to die with; he’s the person I want to be alive with.

“Why do you keep trying when you know how messed up I am?”

“Because loving you saved me. It’s made me see myself differently, see the world differently. I owe you everything for that.”

“I can tell you some crazy stories if you want,” she added, in a flirtatious promise.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Why?” I’m not thinking about being careful. I’m thinking about one last push, of letting go, of flying, and of falling.

“You aren’t allowed to die without me,” he whispers.

“You didn’t want to,” he says. “I know you didn’t. And I didn’t want you to. I care about you too much to watch you die. I want you to live, Aysel. So I did it alone because I wanted to save you.”

“I’m not asking you to live for me. Even though that would be nice because I’m in love with you. And yeah, yeah, you can tell me I’m misusing that word, but I don’t care. That’s how I feel. But this isn’t even about me, or how I feel about you. I want you to live for you because I know there’s so much more waiting for you. There’s so much more for you to discover and experience. And you deserve it, you might not think you do, but you do. I’m here to tell you that you deserve it. And I know I sound cheesy as hell. Believe me, six weeks ago, I would’ve slapped myself for saying shit like this, but knowing you…” I trail off for a moment. “Knowing you has helped me see things differently. See myself differently. And all I want is for you to see yourself the way that I do.”

“Should I keep reading? This world”—I pick up the book—“doesn’t seem to suck so much.”

“You say that now, but wait for it.”

I look down at the page, an illustrated sea monster staring back at me, and then gaze at Roman. “I’ll wait for it, if you’ll wait for it.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’ll wait for it.”

I spend a lot of time wondering what dying feels like. What dying sounds like.