Initially, he hadn't realized how long it had been—hours, minutes, moments merging into one another like watercolors in the rain. Time doesn't matter when you're drowning, he thought, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. He didn't know. He didn't want to think about it. Don't think. Breathe. Just be for one more moment.
Xing picked up the phone with trembling hands and started dialing his mother's number, each digit a small betrayal of his determination. She picked up on the second ring, her voice happy and oblivious.
"Xing? What are you up to? How are you?"
The reassuring warmth in her tone nearly broke him. She has no idea. No idea that her son is standing on the edge of no return. "I forgot to say—yeah, I'm at the beach with my friend." The lie tasted bitter in his mouth. "Oh my God, Xing, you disappeared across town, and I was so worried. I needed to get away from my normal life, you know?"
"Those late hours," his mother's voice had that familiar tone of concern, "and I was so worried. Why didn't you call? I just now heard about it."
Because I was going to never call again. Because I was going to spare you the pain of finding out what your son really is—a failure, a burden, a mistake.
"The train came at seven, and we're at the hotel. You know, check-in was at twelve, and then we slept a bit and missed your call." Each word was practiced, mechanical, as if reciting someone else's script. Someone who still had tomorrows to live for.
"Nothing happened, Mom. I'm okay, thank God." Liar. Everything happened. Everything is happening. And God—where is God in this mess?
"Okay, baby, thank you. You're taking a trip with your friend, but call me."
"Sure thing, sure thing. No problem, Mom." Sure thing, sure thing. No problem, Mom. Sure, I'll call. Sure, I'll humor you until I won't. Until you have to identify what's left of me.
He slammed down the phone and stared at the screen of his phone, his face pale in the black surface. Even now, even at the end, I'm lying to her. What kind of son does that?
He started getting dressed, observing with a vacant laugh that he'd packed hardly any clothes. Dead men don't require wardrobes. A few shorts, trousers he'd never worn, oddments he'd snatched up at random from his bedroom in his haste to depart. He took a shirt and pulled on some loose-fitting hemp trousers. The fabric was strange against his skin—too light, too transient, like everything else in his life.
He slipped on his sandals and stood, seeing for the first time with clear eyes. The hotel was nice—warm but enormous, modern rooms with enormous rooms, everything he'd never had in his life. Ironic, isn't it? Finally getting to stay somewhere nice, and it's going to be my last.
But a voice in the back of his mind whispered, you came here for one reason. To die. To once and for all kill the noise, kill the pain, kill being a disappointment to every person who ever believed in you.
He started walking along the area, his legs carrying him without conscious direction. The epiphany hit him like a physical blow—the sea, the waves, their ceaseless waltz with the shore. The sound was calming and terrifying, like nature's own lullaby. It's like a whisper, he thought, like someone is singing a song just for you. Is this the sound of peace?
He then went upstairs and discovered a small lounge area for the visitors to mingle. A few tables here and there with chairs positioned to get that perfect view. You could sit and watch the sun surrender to the ocean from here. Watch the day perish, just like I plan to.
When he returned to his room, he came bearing food he'd foraged from a nearby grocery store. The food wasn't anything special—sandwiches, frozen fruit, a cute bowl he'd bought for some unknown reason. Why am I shopping? Why am I planning for meals that I might not have?
And then, as if on a tide washing back to shore, his mind surged back to his story. The old whirlpool began, the thoughts chasing each other in endless, malevolent circles. There's nothing that can be done. Nothing that can be changed. Everything is fixed, irreversible, etched in stone like a gravestone with my name already etched on it. And yet here I am, somehow still living.
Almost despite himself, he checked his bank account on his phone. He had money—more than he'd realized, surprisingly. Money for a future I don't want to have. Then he checked his savings, his recent purchases, orders that would be delivered soon. For his mother's birthday. For his dad. A gift he'd ordered for his sister, something small and considerate.
Why was he doing it? The question beat in his head like a fist. Why was he still making plans, still concerning himself with birthdays and gifts and whether the train was on time? Why was he holding onto these threads when he was going to cut through the whole rope?
He collapsed on the bed, pulling his knees up into his chest, and began to sob. What am I doing? Why am I waiting for someone to come save me? Am I going to save myself? How did I get myself into this?
I'm so helpless, the ideas tumbled over each other, frantic and unruly. And yet there are some things—some things which make me feel alive. Some things which do count, which do matter. Some things which will never change, and others that. God, I'm so confused.
I feel like this hate that I bear for my sister is something that prevents me from living my life as fully as I could. And yet somehow, I have every reason to hate her. But now she's dead. She's never coming back. So here I am with this anger, left here with everything, but I still have family. I still have people who would miss me. Does that not count for anything?
His phone buzzed, shaking him out of his spiral. It was his friend, texting from work. Hey, got this situation at work. Can you help me?
Sing looked at the message, blinking back tears. He knew the system his friend was referring to—the same CRM software he'd implemented in his last job. Even now, even here, someone needs me. Someone thinks I'm good enough to help.
Despite himself, he was typing out a response, leading his friend through the technical issue step by step. His fingers moved on muscle memory, troubleshooting, being useful. Maybe this is what I'm supposed to do. Patches for other people's broken systems while mine collapses.
He had just sent the solution when his phone buzzed again seconds later. Thank you, Sing. All good now. How are you?
How am I? The question was absurd. I'm disintegrating. I'm standing on the edge of the abyss, and you're asking me how I am.
I've lost my job, he said. That's not the end of the world. How are you feeling?
I took a vacation to the beach.
That's great. Relax, you know. Not everything in life is work. When you get back, come see me.
Yes, sure. Another lie. Another promise that he may not keep.
When the chat ended, Xing scrolled through his messaging app. Six conversations were waiting for him in his inbox—six ongoing threads with people who obviously still cared enough to text him on a daily basis. His real friends, as few as they were. At least they're there. At least someone would notice if I disappeared.
The realization hit him like a blow, and he started crying again, harder this time. Why am I doing this? Why am I even considering this?
He remembered his last therapy session, the psychiatrist's persistent questioning, how she'd looked at him with that mixture of professional concern and genuine worry. She'd said his life was worth fighting for, that everything he was dealing with—his depression, his anxiety, the weight of being—was surmountable. But what if she was wrong? What if some battles aren't meant to be fought?
All these years, I've come to understand that I signed my own death warrant when I agreed to treatment. The therapy, the drugs, the endless appointments—all of it just staving off the inevitable. And then the second voice, quiet but persistent: Without the treatment, you'd be dead years ago. The drugs have kept you alive all this time. Is that nothing?
Sing continued to cry, the tears coming from somewhere deep and primal. But what if alive isn't enough? What if surviving doesn't amount to living?
Finally, he forced himself to stop crying long enough to drag out a notebook from his backpack. His hands shaking, he began to create two lists: "Things Worth Living For" and "Reasons to Die." Let's get scientific. Let's calculate my life like a balance sheet.
He wrote frantically, pouring his heart onto paper. Incredibly, even though he'd been so convinced that death would have the edge over life, the columns balanced more or less. How was that possible? How could there be as many reasons to live as there were to die?
He looked at both lists, seeking some hidden truth in the words. He moved his hand over the page, erasing some, adding others, moving items from one list to the other. Nothing changes the underlying equation. Are these all of them? All the possibilities I can consider for my own life?
Yes, he knew with appalling clarity. These are all the things I can think of about myself. These are all the advantages and disadvantages of my remaining in this world. But then why is it still so impossible to make a decision?
Exhausted by his own emotions, he fell back onto his bed and slept a restless sleep.
When he woke, the shadows had grown long and strange. The frozen fruit had melted in their containers, leaving soggy, unappetizing mush. The sandwiches had begun to turn, their edges curling with the first signs of decay. Even the food is dying. Everything dies, given enough time.
He threw everything in the trash can and went out to the balcony, drawn by something he couldn't quite name. The night sky opened above him like a vast canvas dotted with paint, clouds scattered across the darkness like shredded pieces of paper. Beautiful. When did I forget how beautiful the world could be?
He was at the edge of the balcony, his fists gripped on the railing. No one was around to witness him. No one to notice what happened next. This is it. This is the moment. All I have to do is let go.
His heart began to pound, racing so quickly he could feel it in his throat, in his fingertips, in his temples. He looked up at the stars, then down at the ground far beneath, then up again. Up and down. Life and death. Wherever you go and whatever you do. Why can't I choose?
What's stopping me? He simply stood there, paralyzed by his own doubt. I came here for this. I plotted this. I haven't been able to think of anything else for weeks. So why can't I make that final move?
Nothing happened. He couldn't move forward, couldn't move backward. Time paralyzed itself around him like amber, suspending him in this moment of terrible possibility.
Finally, his nerve broke. He stumbled backward, away from the edge, back to the relative safety of the balcony itself. His heart still pounding, his breath still coming in short, frightened gasps. He backed against the wall, trying to catch his breath, trying to make sense of what had happened.
I couldn't do it. I wanted to, planned to, came all this way to. and I couldn't.
A strange sensation began to form in his chest—not relief, not disappointment. A hum, like electricity through water. His breathing got more uneven, gasping now, and he knew he was crying again. But these tears were different—rawer, more honest somehow. They were coming from deep and far away, like echoes of every cry he'd never let out.
Maybe, he thought as he cried there in the starlight, maybe the fact that I can't jump is important. Maybe there's still some part of me that wants to live, though I don't know yet what it is.
Maybe tomorrow I'll call that therapist, return her call. Maybe I'll try those new medications she spoke about. Maybe I'll text my friends and inform them of the truth—that I'm drowning but still swimming, that I'm lost but still searching.
Maybe I'll stop, finally, planning my death and start planning my life.
The tears still dropped, but for the very first time in months, they didn't seem like an ending. They seemed like a beginning.
Maybe that is enough for tonight. Maybe survival is enough, and I can attempt living tomorrow.
He cried under the vast, indifferent stars, and for the first time in more months than he could remember, he felt something that might have been hope. It was small and weak and might not survive until dawn, but it was there. Real. Possible.
Maybe that's all anyone ever needs—a maybe. A possibility. A reason to discover what happens next.
The night stretched out before him, unsure but no longer full of endings. He had made it through another day, and perhaps that was victory enough.