—If we factor in my weight, plus the stones stuffed in my pockets, that’s a total of 77 kilograms. Add the 70 meters from the bridge to the river running below, and we get a falling speed of 31.32 meters per second. If I dive headfirst, the impact might knock me out, and I wouldn’t have to worry about my survival instinct tempting me to swim.

  —How deep are we talking?

  —Uhm… about 6.53 meters, give or take. Helps that it’s winter—heck, I might even die of hypothermia if drowning doesn’t get me first.

  —So you’re saying you’re fine with someone finding your shriveled, frozen body with a horrified grimace if the drowning doesn’t pan out? Isn’t that… a bit undignified?

  —Honestly, it’s annoying how you always find something wrong with my ideas, you know?

  —Sorry for pointing out the obvious stuff that flies over your head. You might be all analytical, but that doesn’t make you any less stupid.

  The black-haired girl answered, her eyes lost in the swaying water below us. Her face tilted, resting against one of the bridge’s railings.

  —You’re supposed to be the one cheering me on for this kind of thing.

  —Supposed to be.

  —But something tells me you’re not going to, huh? Am I wrong?

  She turned her head. —Nope, she concluded. Her fingers brushed the worn railing, and slowly her gaze met mine. She slid her hands into her pockets and leaned forward a little, as if trying to read my expression right then.

  —Doesn’t that go against the whole point of your existence?

  —The same could be said about suicide.

  She said it while pulling her hood up. Nothing flashy about her outfit, honestly, though the green parka stood out sharply against the amber of her eyes.

  I wanted to argue back, but truth be told, she had a point.

  —I don’t even know why I keep talking to you.

  —Because you’ve got no one else to talk to.

  —Even if you’re right, at this rate I’m starting to look like the town nutcase.

  —YES! That’s exactly what anyone would think when you talk about suicide like it’s some college assignment!

  —No, it’s what anyone would think because I’m the only one who can see or hear you.

  She pressed her index finger to her lips, clearly not thinking—just pretending to, a cheap ploy to get under my skin. A cheap, effective ploy.

  —Ah… Touché, she said, letting out a faint laugh that faded into the winter breeze’s echo.

  I buried half my face in my scarf and turned around. I’d already written the night off as a bust, so there was no point staring at the water anymore—I wanted to die, not go fishing.

  —It’s still early. Where you headed?

  —Home. This method’s a no-go. I’m cold, probably catching a chill, and above all, I haven’t even had dinner yet.

  —You were considering dying of hypothermia in the river, and now you’re whining about the cold? I don’t get how your brain works, honestly.

  —Simple. In the river, I’d probably die. Here, the worst I’ll get is a flu that’ll keep me in bed.

  —And I’d be the one spoon-feeding you revitalizing soup? she said between little laughs. —How’s it feel?

  —Only if you spice it with some rat poison, I replied, trudging toward home. I could hear her footsteps behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. —It feels awful. Your head hurts, you might run a fever, and you need a ton of tissues to keep the snot in check.

  —Idiot, she shot back. I could hear her exhale hard—you know, that kid thing where you puff out vapor in the cold just to see it. —I was asking how the cold feels.

  Her question stopped me in my tracks, though I’m not sure why. When I turned, she was inspecting her hands, holding them up toward the sky.

  —What, you want me to fetch a ladder, or are you planning to stretch up there yourself?

  My question fell on deaf ears. She just walked over, yanked one of my hands out of my pocket, and held hers beside it.

  —The tips of my fingers didn’t turn pink like yours… Should I be shivering like you are? Does the cold bother you that much? she asked, eyeing my hand next to hers, which lacked even a hint of color.

  —You ask too many questions sometimes, you know? Hard to believe you don’t already know this or that I’m the first person you’ve asked.

  —Why’s that?

  —Because of… let’s call it… “the nature of your job.”

  —My “job,” as you put it, doesn’t dictate my questions—or even my wants. Weirdly enough, you’re the first I’ve asked this to.

  I let out a laugh, cheap and overdone sarcasm, shoving my hand back in my pocket. —Wasn’t I the one with no one to talk to? I said, turning and resuming my walk.

  —I’ve got people to talk to.

  —Then why don’t you go chat them up?

  —That’s exactly what I’m doing.

  To be honest, how blunt she was made me want to drop the conversation entirely, so I just kept walking. The cold crept under my clothes, but I didn’t feel rushed to get home.

  Who’d be eager to reach an empty place—or worse, one where no one’s waiting for you?

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  Cutting through downtown was unavoidable; my house sat in a small neighborhood a few blocks past it. I’d grown to hate that stretch a long time ago. Groups of friends drinking, couples—it stirred up a mix of nostalgia and envy. I let the streetlights steal my focus all the way home. I could’ve talked to her on the walk, but I didn’t, and neither did she.

  My house was a family hand-me-down, nothing special—more old than anything else. But a roof’s a roof, and I wasn’t planning to stick around much longer, so I couldn’t complain.

  I used to cook my own meals; now it’s just junk food or those pre-made boxes you toss in the microwave.

  I pulled a package from the microwave—two servings, one for me, one out of courtesy.

  —No need to feed me.

  —No need for you to eat it either, and yet you do.

  She twirled the fork side to side, watching me eat. —Is it good? Her voice sounded curious.

  —Shouldn’t I be the one asking that? I said, a laugh slipping out at the end that caught me off guard.

  —You know I couldn’t answer it.

  —Yeah. I know.

  —And yet you seasoned it like you were expecting a reply…

  —Guilty as charged.

  —And you made sure it wasn’t too hot…

  —Another crime on my rap sheet. I looked up at her, but her eyes were glued to the plate. —You know, you’re weirder than usual tonight…

  —And you’re about to kill my appetite with your commentary, she snapped.

  —I’d believe that if you could actually feel hunger, I fired back. I was ready for another round of verbal sparring, but she seemed upset about something. She set the plate aside, stood quietly, and headed to the room. —Hey, if you leave me alone, I might slit my wrists with one of these knives! I raised my voice so she’d hear, but it didn’t bring her back. The only sound that answered was the door to the room shutting.

  We can’t change what we are—pretty sure some big shot said that.

  Ever finished a puzzle? There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the full picture after slotting every piece into place. Here, the picture was a mirror of me clinging to some shred of normalcy.

  She was right—being analytical didn’t make me less stupid. The food’s taste, the plate’s warmth—in my head, it was an attempt at a normal dinner. For her, it was a reminder: she couldn’t taste or feel.

  That’s when I got her question about the cold.

  I let the night drag on, slow and exhausting. Washed the dishes, put everything back where it belonged. Being suicidal doesn’t mean being a slob, just to clear that up.

  My room was at the end of the hall, so I had to pass hers—used to be the one I slept in when I visited my grandma.

  I felt like knocking and talking. I was used to chatting with her until I dozed off, but on top of being suicidal, I’m also a coward.

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night—my head’s too far gone for normal stuff. And her, since day one, she’s been anything but normal, now that I think about it.

  I met her—or rather, she found me—after I had a mental breakdown in the neighborhood store and tried to off myself by chugging a bottle of bleach.

  Yeah, I did it in public.

  They pumped my stomach and ran one of those routine psych evaluations. It was too easy to convince them it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, not a thought that’d been spinning in my head since I moved to this town.

  They kept me under observation for a few days—you know, to make sure I wouldn’t try again.

  The hospital was small but decent. No gripes about the doctors or how they treated me, and the little indoor garden was a nice spot to not feel like a prisoner, so I spent most of my days parked on a bench.

  During observation, no patients tried talking to me. I didn’t try either. Complaining would’ve been hypocritical.

  On my last day there, staring out the second-floor window, lost in the shuffle of white coats moving back and forth, a girl’s voice snapped me out of it with a dumb question.

  —Bleach…? Can’t say it’s original, and I can’t say it’s foolproof… as you’ve probably noticed, said the black-haired girl with amber eyes, staring at the same spot I was while she critiqued me. —What I can say is… doing it in front of everyone? What was that, some kind of protest? she added, bursting into laughter.

  —It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I said.

  I tried brushing off her comment, but I wondered how she knew. She looked about my age, which threw me off even more. I’d have let it slide if she were a doctor.

  —Nope. You really want to die, she said, glancing at me sidelong without turning her head.

  —It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I repeated, annoyed.

  —The cuts on your wrists—those spur-of-the-moment too? she asked, finally turning her head, her gaze dropping to my arms, then climbing back up. —What about the mark on your neck?

  —Spur-of-the-moment, I said again.

  —Is that all you know how to say or what?

  —Depends on the moment, I replied, my voice light in such a heavy space.

  She let out a cackle. I thought I’d ticked her off, but it seemed to amuse her.

  —When’s your next attempt? she asked, settling more comfortably on the bench.

  —There won’t be a next attempt… just… had a bad day, that’s all…

  —Is that what you said the eight…? NO! Nine times before? To be exact.

  If my eyes had widened any more, they’d have probably fallen out. I could let the bleach thing slide—cuts and marks were an easy guess—but the exact number?

  —How the hell…? I couldn’t even finish; my voice just unraveled.

  —Was it when you came here, or did you come here thinking something would change?

  —Shut up.

  —Was it when your phone stopped ringing as much, or when everyone stopped calling altogether?

  —I’m telling you to shut up.

  —If you asked me…

  —I’m not asking.

  —…I’d say… it was when you realized everyone else knew how to move forward… except… you, she concluded, tilting her head like there was background music.

  I shot up, I’ll admit—more scared than pissed right then.

  She, meanwhile, watched me with a smile, slowly swinging her legs on the bench.

  —W-Who the hell are you…?!

  —It’ll sound dumb if I just say it, she chided, crossing her arms. —And I’d suggest lowering your voice. You’re hours away from heading home—be a shame if they peg you as someone with a screw or two loose.

  —Anyone would react like this in this situation!

  —We agree on that, but this isn’t a normal situation.

  —What do you mean?

  —Look around… Calmly, she stretched her arms out as she spoke, like someone finishing a workout.

  —Don’t change the— I started, but it wasn’t just the patients—even the doctors smoking in the garden had their eyes locked on me. —What’s going on?

  I felt sick.

  —Uhm… you’re talking to me, sure, but to them— she said, hopping up with a little bounce. She stepped closer and whispered. —you’re talking alone.

  —…I don’t get it… I said, focusing on the stares all around.

  —What don’t you get? Oh… right… Is it how I look? You know, the robe, the scythe, the skeleton—that’s just a fairy tale, she replied, laughing as she stepped back. —I came to take your soul.

  At amusement parks, they’ve got those cheesy horror house games—shoddily made, for kids—but when you’re in one of those dark halls and something bangs the wall, you jump. You freeze.

  That’s exactly what hit me when I heard her.

  Had I lost it? Didn’t matter—a part of my brain knew something about her wasn’t natural.

  —Hey, that last bit was a joke, she said, giving my head a light shove. —Guess I need to work on my punchlines, huh?

  I didn’t answer.

  —I know you’re gonna try killing yourself again. It’s in your eyes—there’s nothing left there.

  —So you’re here to help me out? I asked, finally scraping together some composure to speak.

  —The opposite. I came to make sure you don’t.

  —Pretty sure you’re supposed to handle the reverse.

  —Who am I supposed to be?

  —You know…

  —Yeah, go on.

  —The… death…?

  —Bingo!

  It’s been almost a month since that day, and honestly, I wanted to say a lot of things to her back then.

  Tonight, I just wanted to tell her this night was colder than all the nights before.