One of the hardest things in this world to do, you muse, is to talk a friend out of suicide right as you're on the brink of killing yourself. To convince someone they have a reason to live while you yourself don't, can't, believe any exist. To give a friend hope as your life-light is torn right out of you. It's damn near impossible.

And yet, she did it. You had called her with problems of your own, blind to her situation. Blind to the despair you and she have in common. But you lived. You lived through it, and she didn't. While you went to sleep for the night, knowing you would wake up the next morning, she went to sleep forever.

You feel guilty, and are ashamed of your failure to save her life, but at the same time, you envy her. You wish you had been the one to die that night, while she lived on. She had potential, and a purpose. More reason to live than you have, at the very least.

Closing your eyes, you visualise the exact mix of cuts and drugs you would take to kill yourself. You know exactly where to get the supplies, and already have most of them. You know what it would feel like, and you ache to try it, but you can't. You won't kill yourself. She would have wanted you to live.

"At least this way one of us will live. At least the world will have you."