I was seventeen, sitting on the edge of a bridge at 4 a.m., ready to end it all. I’d planned it for months—written the note, given away my things, picked the highest point so there’d be no second chances.
Cars passed. No one stopped. I felt invisible, like death would be no different.
Then I heard a motorcycle. The engine’s rumble cut through the silence. One headlight, moving toward me. I expected it to pass. It didn’t.
A man stopped. Boots on pavement. Leather vest. Tattoos. Gray beard. Rough voice.
“Mind if I sit with you?”
I told him not to bother. I didn’t want someone talking me down.
He didn’t. He climbed over the railing, sat beside me, legs dangling over the void. “Sitting,” he said. “That’s all I’m doing.”
That man—Frank—smoked his cigarette, told me his name, asked mine. I said Emma. He didn’t judge. Didn’t lecture. He just talked. About nothing and everything.
“You’re angry at everyone?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Because nobody was here before this moment.”
Frank nodded. “I know. I was you thirty-two years ago. Different bridge. Same plan.”
He told me about his life—the Gulf, the war, losing his family, ending up on a bridge thinking he couldn’t go on. And then someone sat with him. Didn’t try to fix him. Didn’t yell. Just stayed. Eight hours. That’s all it took. One question:
“What would you do if you weren’t in pain?”
Sunlight began spilling over the horizon. I hated that it was beautiful. Frank didn’t push me. Didn’t command. He just asked the question again, gently.
And for the first time, I realized there was an answer buried under the darkness.
“I wanted to help animals,” I whispered. “Dogs… the ones nobody wants.”
Frank smiled. “The ones that need someone to sit with them in the dark.”
We talked for hours. No judgment. No scripts. Just presence. By hour six, I was ready. He helped me back over the railing. Held me when my legs gave out.
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