It didn’t feel dramatic the night I made the decision to die. It was silent and definitive, like crossing something off a long list. I was seventeen, weary in a manner that sleep could never restore, and certain that I had already squandered all of my opportunities. I wasn’t trying to get attention. I had no intention of frightening anyone. All I wanted was for the cacophony inside my thoughts to stop.
Everything was meticulously arranged by me. The things that were important to me were given away. I never read the note I wrote again. I decided on a bridge that was high enough to eliminate any doubt and make it impossible to survive. I chose to see the sun rise one last time on a Tuesday morning since there would be fewer people around, and I climbed over the railing shortly before dawn.
Automobiles went by. One by one. The headlights passed over me and vanished. A few motorists reduced their speed. Most didn’t. Nobody halted. how I sat there with my legs dangling over the wide air, I felt just how I had always felt throughout my life: invisible, unimportant, already gone.
Then a motorcycle was heard.
Deep and distinct, the sound pierced the early morning quiet. As I watched the lone headlight get closer, I assumed it would pass like everything else. It slowed instead. pulled over. The engine cut out. Boots slammed onto the sidewalk.
The voice of a man came next. Be calm. Not rushed.
Would it be okay if I sat beside you?
I looked around. He was large, elderly, and rather rugged. beard that is gray. Patched leather vest. tattoos all over the arms. The type of man that people avoid by crossing the street.
I firmly stated, “I’m not looking to be talked out of it.” “Therefore, don’t waste time.”
As if I had just informed him of the weather, he nodded. “Didn’t intend to.”
Then he took the one action that no one else had taken. He scaled the railing and took a seat next to me, allowing his legs to hang over the same drop.
“What are you doing?” Startled in spite of myself, I asked.
“Keeping you company.” “You smoke?” he inquired after taking out a cigarette and pausing.
“No.”
“Well done.” For himself, he ignited it. “My name is Frank.”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s okay,” he said with ease. “Do you have a name, or should I come up with one?”
I’m not sure why I responded. I had no intention of telling anyone. “Emma.”
Gazing toward the horizon, he nodded. “Nice name. What a vista.
“I chose it for that reason.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I understand that.”
He didn’t assure me that things will improve. My family would be crushed, but I was not informed. didn’t mention my youth, selfishness, or confusion. As the sky gradually changed color, he simply sat there and listened.
He showed me the scar across his throat when I finally questioned why he was acting in this way. told me that decades before, he had been in my shoes. An alternative bridge. The same strategy. The same dawn.
He talked about losing his family and feeling irreparable, about war, and about shame he couldn’t escape. He related to me how a stranger on a motorcycle had once sat with him for hours on end without offering advice or attempting to help him. simply remaining.
Frank remarked, “That man asked me one question.” “Everything was altered.”
“What query?”
“If you weren’t in pain, what would you do?”
I didn’t respond. I was unable to. The concept seemed strange, almost unpleasant. Pain has been the foundation of my life. It seemed difficult to remove.
As the sun rose, we sat there. The police showed up. Barricades next. Then, over megaphones, came voices yelling. At some time, my mother showed up, crying uncontrollably behind blinding lights.
Frank didn’t move.
He described to me the life he painstakingly and carefully created, one choice at a time. a second union. Sons. a granddaughter. A group of motorcyclists who had all stood on their individual precipices and decided to continue.
He made no promises about happiness. He did not market hope as a commodity. He discussed his job. about therapy. Regarding times when surviving seemed like a failure and others when it felt like a triumph.
It was six hours later.
I was exhausted by the time the sun rose. empty. But I wasn’t alone for the first time in months.
I finally said, “I don’t want to die.”
Frank gave one nod. Not a party. Not a drama. “All right. When you are, you will be ready.
He assisted me in getting back over the railing. The moment my feet touched firm ground, my legs gave out. Without hesitation, he grabbed me and held me while I sobbed more intensely than I had ever done.
After that, I was in the hospital for weeks. It was cruel. essential. Frank came every day. His club members also did. I wasn’t treated like a project or a patient by them. They made me feel like a person worth hanging around.
It’s been eight years.
I am now twenty-five. I’m a veterinarian student with a focus on elderly and hospice care—the animals that people give up on and no one wants. They make sense to me. I have experienced being written off.
Next month, Frank will accompany me down the aisle. I get assistance from his wife in organizing the wedding. I am referred to as family by his granddaughter.
Frank and I return to that bridge each year. Now that we are safe, we watch the sunrise. Occasionally, we also scale the railing when someone else does. We don’t give lectures. We don’t give orders. We simply sit.
Sometimes lives are saved in this way. Not by coercion. Not through speeches. by being there.
Frank didn’t stop me to save me. He stayed and saved me.
by posing a single query just when I needed it.
If you weren’t in agony, how would you respond?
I’m living the solution.