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I sit down, open the software and stare at the stupid insertion point. I want to write how I feel, I think I need to seem somber. And no words come to mind. My mind wouldn’t stay in one place, it hurts. I feel as if I’m being slowly crushed by a giant rock on my chest. I want to cry, and yet I’m numb. If they read this now, they’ll say I’m stupid and cringeworthy, they will tell me how much better they are. What would they do if I had already taken my life? Would they think about my attempts at finding help but being thought of as an attention seeker? Would they regret it? How will I handle waking up tomorrow? I can hear the rain striking my window. I open it. Standing in front of the open space, the rain dampening my clothes, my skin, my hair. I look down. The distance from the ground isn’t scary anymore. I find it comforting. I imagine lying there, the rain continuing to pour, on my face, on my soft white sweater ruined by the wet dirt. What a way to end a story.
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