text: Authors Note: I wrote this because I was inspired by a post on r/depression by the user u/terencepen1 . I know that I am still a novice writer and I need to improve on a lot of aspects of my fiction writing. I am posting this story in this sub because it seems like an appropriate place to share this. “If you and Matt are busy, we can always grab lunch another time.” The letters spun underneath the tips of my fingers and entered the chat, but I didn’t feel or register the action. I honestly don’t feel much of anything anymore. “No, Matt and I are in line to get food.” Grayson messaged. “Cool! I’m sitting somewhere near the entrance.” You know, I said that it was cool, but some part of me really didn’t want to eat with them. I twirled the carrots on my plate, pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of undercooked college dining hall food, just so I could act aloof, so I could let Matt and Grayson know that I didn’t need them. I had my brittle root vegetables. They made their way over to where I was sitting. We mostly ate in silence, my two friends chittering away with one another, unaware of the malignant pleasures bewitching my brain. I could feel my face contort in such a ghastly manner, the only way it can when you are about to sob. “Are you okay?” Matt asked, his eyebrows did the thing where they turn up and scrunch together. The "genuine concern eyebrows." “You know, just casually suicidal.” I laughed, a meek cry for help. He halfheartedly grinned in response, and then jumped back into his previous conversation with Grayson. Their lack of acknowledgement or concern and ability to go along with my fervent lies bothered me to no end, and I got up to leave not soon after. I couldn’t just sit here without letting the waterworks spill over. Back in my dorm, I turned on the shower, my hands feeling heavy and not entirely my own. I stepped out of the bathroom to let the water warm up a bit. The preemptive sting of tears hit the bridge of my nose once again. Without even thinking I took the few steps to my bed and ripped the comforter off, throwing my clothes around the room, hoping for even the slightest trace of anything other than the sinking weight of living that made its home in my ribcage. Hoping that ruining my always tidy asylum would ignite a feeling of regret or just ground me into reality. Standing in the middle of the room I looked at the mess that I had designed. A sweater touched some my roommates side and I shoved it back to my side with my foot. My eyes glanced instinctively down to my phone. A notification from Matt lit up the screen. "Hey, sorry that your having a bad day, if you ever want to talk we’re here. We love you.” It was a sweet notion, but the only thing that crossed my mind was that he spelled “you’re” wrong. And because of that, I just wouldn't reply. He could have said something when I admitted my casual distress fifteen minutes prior, i wish he would have said something. The shower should be hot by now. Something about having scalding water hit my face made the welled up tears finally fall from my eyes. I am so worthless. This education is so expensive, and if my human capital is worthless, then I am just a waste of space and money. I lathered some shampoo into my hair, it smelled like candied roses. What is the point of living if things won’t get better? I am so fucking sick, so sad and so chemically messed up. I will always be empty and sad. I should just kill myself. Who would it hurt? Maybe my dad. I love my dad, but he isn’t the reason why I wouldn't go through with my own euthanasia. I rinsed out the shampoo and put in conditioner. The friends that I have made don’t know me well enough to truly be sad if I died. My roommate would be a little sad, but she’d get over it. It’s only been five months that I have known these new friends, five months isn’t enough time to be sad if someone you know meets their own mortality. Some rational part of my brain keeps arguing that I have already spent a lot of money on school, and that if I were to kill myself now, then I would be wasting that money, I should finish what I started. I put some shower gel onto a loofah and started to scrub my skin. I have superficial reasons to take care of this stupid body even if I want to discard it. I know that showering can make these sick feelings go away. Feverish water rinsed away the suds from my shoulders and arms, running down the drain with the filth of my existence. I could never go through with it though. Every option would hurt too much. Jumping from the roof would make a huge mess for everyone, and who even knows if it would work? What if I just ended up paralyzed? The same can be said for an overdose. The only pills I have access too might not even kill me. How much ibuprofen do you have to take to do any damage? As for bleeding out... that has the potential to be nice, I often like to romanticize the act of slitting my wrists and dying, how everything would burn yet feel cold and how I would fade into oblivion. But that isn’t realistic, and I don’t really think that I’d be capable of cutting deep enough into my arm to do any real damage, and my fantasia of the act is just that, a fantasy. Plus my roommate would have to deal with the mess and that’s just rude, I refuse to be a rude human being. I know that for some arbitrary reason I have to keep on living, but wouldn’t things just be so much easier I could enter the void? If I could end all of this trivial torment? I just don’t want to be alone. The bombardment of tears has passed, I can feel the burn that lingers every time that I blink. I got out of the shower and lazily dried myself off. Slipping on some gross dirty clothes I decided to take a walk. Maybe I could find a bridge to jump off of. The bite of frosty winter air hit me as I stepped outside. It’s a Tuesday and people are walking around going places, living. I round the corner of my building and spot the frozen yogurt shop that my friends and I go to on Wednesdays. I don’t know what convinced me to enter the shop, I didn’t really have the money to treat myself to this. I walked in and grabbed the smallest cup, filling it with plain vanilla, no toppings, just vanilla yogurt. The cashier rang me up, saying “that’ll be four dollars,” his voice chimed with a weird genuine vibrato that is hard to find in any food service or retail job. It’s contagious really, I smiled back at him and went to sit down. I still can’t feel my hands, it’s as if a phantom possess my body and I have to take the backseat while they control me. I look down at the plain and boring treat in my lap and a single tear rolls down my cheek. I just have to take each day one at a time. I know that today won’t be the day that I die, maybe I can sleep off this heavy dread.