Once upon a time, there was a car crash. Traffic was backed up for hours, and all anyone did was complain; they were late-late for work, late for lunch, late for a great-aunt's funeral. I watched. I stood in front of my window, slightly on my toes, hoping for a glimpse of the scene. And yes, I saw it. I saw the woman who was visibly shaken, who kept crying out, "My baby! My baby!" it was like some superhero movie, but we had no hero.

I remember you saying you wanted to be the hero-you wanted to save people. You studied comic books for hours, staying holed up in your room for days, weeks, even. You wanted to learn everything there was to being a hero, a savior, a light in the dark world of villains.

I would drag you outside sometimes, watched you cringe slightly at the sunlight attacking your pale skin. I saw how thin you were, your ribs underneath loose gray t-shirts, the bags underneath your eyes, purple; the color of a supervillain, you once told me.

Becoming a hero was your dream, your ambition. To me, it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. I watched you fall apart, break and crumble underneath the weight of trying to do what was right. It wasn't right, what you were doing, although you swore to me it was. You said you were helping mankind, that you would be stronger someday, that you would be able to fly, even if it was with a stupid jetpack strapped to your back. You were caught up in your own world, your own galaxy, where you were a hero, where you could do anything.

You wanted so badly to be a savior, that you didn't have the time to save yourself.