In the middle of class, I look over at you, catch your eye. Giving a smile, I try to break your stony composure, but you can tell the reassurance never quite reaches my eyes. You can tell that I worry about you. You can tell that I would give anything to forget that dreadful, horrible night. Without a word, we both know that the other cannot stop thinking about it.
I flash back to different parts of that night- when you called me, sobbing, close to letting go. When I drove in circles around your neighborhood until I found you, sitting on a curb, debating the point of life in general. When I pulled you into the passenger seat and refused to let you go until you had visibly calmed down and I could trust you not to hurt yourself. When, later that night, I nearly drowned in the guilt I had absorbed myself in for leaving you alone, even though you seemed stable. How did I know you wouldn’t just turn around when I left and go right back to the same jumping off point I found you at?

You assured me, when I apologized for leaving instead of spending the rest of the night with you as I should have, that I had been nothing less than the best of friends, that you could never thank me enough, but I know you. I know that you see showing emotions as a weakness, and would rather suffer through your misery than call me back and ask for help again. So I worry.

I suppose a good friend should worry, though, in this situation. Right? I should be concerned for your welfare. Worrying, though, hurts a person. It aches to know that at any moment, you could be back on that curb, ready to end it all. I would stop at nothing to keep you from reaching that point again.

Coming to this conclusion, I turn back to you, still watching me from your desk across the room, and give another smile- but a real one this time. One that I hope will give you the courage to face your problems, the courage to be happy. I want you to know, I will be there for you. Always.