I felt invisible. Like no one truly saw me, not even when I was right there. Depression convinced me I was a burden, that my absence would be a relief to others. I had started writing goodbye letters. I didn’t want to die—but I didn’t want to keep living like that either.

 

On the night I planned to go through with it, a friend randomly called to check in. I almost ignored it, but I picked up. I broke down. That call cracked something open in me. We talked for hours. They reminded me of memories, of good times, of how much I mattered. It wasn’t everything, but it was enough to make me stay.