She didn't bolt.
That was surprising.
She also didn't speak again for a solid thirty seconds, which felt like standing naked in front of a firing squad of emotions. I awkwardly shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to look casual and not like a walking psychological dumpster fire.
"You're… still here," she finally said, voice low. Soft. Tired.
I nodded. "Yep. That's kind of my whole personality. Showing up where I shouldn't be and staying longer than socially acceptable."
She blinked at me, like she couldn't decide if she was annoyed or impressed.
Honestly, same.
"I'm not gonna jump," she said after a beat, but the way she said it made it sound like she wasn't convincing herself either.
"Cool," I said. "'Cause I didn't bring a parachute. And I'm really not in the mood for a rescue mission in subzero water. I just got over bronchitis."
That got the tiniest snort out of her. Barely a breath. But it counted.
I stepped a little closer, just enough to lean against the rail beside her, careful not to touch her. The wind was sharp and uninviting, like nature itself was over our collective nonsense. Her hands were clenched at her sides, knuckles pale.
"So," I said. "We gonna stand here until one of us freezes to death, or do you want to maybe not get pneumonia today?"
She turned her head slightly toward me. Her eyes—God, her eyes—were the kind you don't forget. Not because they were pretty or whatever, but because they looked like they'd seen war. And maybe started a few.
"You're annoying," she said.
"I get that a lot," I replied, deadpan. "Usually from my therapist. Before she quit on me."
"You had a therapist?"
"Keyword: had."
Silence again. But this one wasn't heavy like before. It was… weirdly bearable.
"Okay," I clapped my hands once, loud and abrupt. She flinched. I winced. "Shit, sorry. Reflex. But seriously, you wanna grab coffee or something?"
She raised a brow. "Are you hitting on me right now?"
"God no. I mean—maybe? I don't know. I haven't socialized since 2021 and most of that was arguing with a raccoon over a Pop-Tart."
That actually made her laugh. Not a full laugh. More like an accidental hiccup of one. But it was there.
Progress.
"Come on," I said, gesturing toward the sidewalk with a dramatic flourish. "Let's go get you warm and mildly caffeinated. If nothing else, you can spend twenty minutes judging me silently over a paper cup of overpriced cocoa."
She hesitated. Then nodded.
We walked side by side. Awkward. Quiet. Our steps crunching in the snow, breath clouding in the cold.
"You got a name?" I asked after a while.
She glanced at me, eyes still puffy from crying but somehow sharper now. "Raven."
Of course it was.
"You serious?" I said.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because I literally just saved a girl named Raven from jumping off a bridge. That's peak indie film energy. Like we're one acoustic guitar away from an A24 movie."
She rolled her eyes. "What's your name then? Let me guess—Eli? Or something equally tragic sounding."
I stopped walking.
She turned to look at me.
"…Are you fucking psychic?"
Her eyes widened. "Wait. Seriously?"
"I hate it here," I muttered, deadpan. "This is getting dangerously close to fate or some Nicholas Sparks bullshit."
She smirked. "Relax. We're not kissing in the rain anytime soon."
"Good," I said. "Because I left my tragic backstory monologue at home and I'm fresh out of slow-mo camera angles."
Raven shook her head, but I could see the corners of her mouth twitching again.
And for a while, as we walked through the frost-bitten streets of a town too pretty for people like us, I felt something I hadn't in a long time.
Like maybe I wasn't completely alone in the static.
We ended up at this little coffee shop on the corner of Main—the kind of place that tries really hard to feel "vintage" but just ends up smelling like wet pinecones and desperation. It was called The Roasted Bean. I judged the name immediately and with full prejudice.
The inside was warm, too warm, like it was trying to make you forget you lived in a frozen void. There were mismatched chairs, string lights that looked like they'd been stolen off a Christmas tree, and an acoustic guitar in the corner no one asked for.
Raven stood near the door like she was ready to bolt.
"You ever been in here?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't really do people."
"Same. But they sell cinnamon rolls the size of my emotional damage, so I make an exception."
That got a tiny exhale from her. Not quite a laugh. More like her soul sighing through her nose.
I ordered two hot chocolates because coffee tastes like burnt sadness, and I wasn't trying to flex my trauma with espresso. The barista—a dude with a man bun and ironic facial hair—smirked at me like I wasn't indie enough to exist.
We sat at a table near the window. Raven stared outside like the snow might personally attack her. I took a sip of cocoa and immediately burned the roof of my mouth.
"Fuck," I hissed, nearly choking. "Why is this hotter than Satan's bidet?"
Raven blinked at me. "Did you just say—?"
"Don't judge me," I muttered, holding my tongue between my teeth like that would help. "I've been up since four having an existential crisis. My filter's dead."
She smiled. A real one this time.
"I wasn't gonna jump," she said suddenly. "Back there. On the bridge."
I didn't say anything. Just waited.
"But I thought about it. Like… I looked down and wondered if maybe it'd be quieter."
Still didn't talk. Just listened. Sipped my too-hot cocoa and let the words hang like icicles between us.
"My mom would probably say it's just hormones. Or attention-seeking. Or something I'll 'grow out of,'" she added bitterly.
"Yeah," I said, finally. "My dad told me if I ever tried anything like that, he'd beat my ass for being weak."
She blinked. "Jesus."
"Right? Parenting 101: emotionally invalidate your child until they start naming their scars like pets."
She snorted.
Then coughed.
Then actually laughed.
It was the kind of laugh that starts off small but keeps going, like her soul forgot how to do it and just remembered.
"God, you're messed up," she said.
"Extremely," I replied, grinning. "But at least I'm funny."
We sat there, two fucked-up teens sipping cocoa in a secondhand Pinterest café while the world outside stayed cold and indifferent.
And for a moment, we weren't statistics.
We were just… kids.
Alive.
Barely.
But alive.
"Thanks," she said suddenly, her voice quiet again. "For not walking away."
"I was gonna say the same to you," I replied. "Most people see me and immediately call animal control."
She laughed again. The sound was weirdly beautiful.
I didn't say that though. Too soon. Way too soon.
"I should get home," she said after a while, finishing her drink.
"You have, like, a curfew or something?"
"No," she said. "But my mom starts texting Bible verses at me if I'm out too long."
"Damn. You win."
She stood, hesitated, then pulled a pen from her pocket and grabbed a napkin.
"I don't do phone numbers," she said, writing something. "But here's my Instagram handle. If you're not secretly a 40-year-old creeper or trying to sell me crypto, I might respond."
I took the napkin like it was a golden ticket.
Raven stepped back toward the door, hoodie pulled tight. Before leaving, she glanced at me once more.
"I meant it, you know," she said. "You're funny."
I smirked. "You're not so bad yourself, Wednesday Addams."
She rolled her eyes and left.
And just like that, the world felt louder again. But not in a bad way this time.
In a maybe-I-won't-jump-tomorrow kind of way.
I stayed in The Roasted Bean a little longer, watching the snow coat the street like powdered sugar on a stale donut. The man-bun barista was wiping down the counter with the same passion I put into avoiding eye contact with my reflection.
I sipped the last of my cocoa—now just lukewarm regret—and stared at the napkin Raven left me. Her handle was something cryptic and vaguely threatening: @bloodmilk.cemetery. Very on-brand. If you'd told me she was raised on Coraline, Lana Del Rey, and the complete Criterion Collection, I'd believe you without a shred of doubt.
Eventually, I left the coffee shop and walked home through the quiet.
Snowflakes hit my face like tiny, cold reminders that I was still here. Still breathing. Still trudging through whatever the hell this chapter of life was.
Home was the kind of house that looked fine from the outside, but inside felt like someone had pressed pause on time somewhere in 2006 and never hit play again. Beige carpet. A couch that was probably alive. Framed Bible quotes that hadn't worked in years.
Dad was passed out on the recliner, half a beer still in hand, TV blasting some old war movie like it was therapy. Mom was "at book club," which loosely translated to wine, gossip, and complaining about me.
I tiptoed past, hit the stairs, and made it to my room without a noise—stealth mode activated. Opened the door. Shut it. Exhaled like I'd just survived a hostage situation.
My room was my kingdom of chaos: stacks of books, an old turntable, a mattress on the floor like I'd personally declared war on bed frames. Posters of movies that made people uncomfortable. My laptop, always slightly overheated, humming like it knew my secrets.
I flopped down and stared at the ceiling. Let my brain drift into that weird soup of thoughts and what-ifs and memories I didn't ask for.
And then, without thinking, I opened Instagram.
Searched her handle.
She popped up instantly.
Her profile picture was a blurry shot of a crow with a cigarette in its beak. Iconic. The bio said:
"Haunting suburbs near you. I eat sadness for breakfast. Sometimes I paint."
I hovered over the follow button like it was a landmine.
Then I clicked it.
And immediately tossed my phone across the room like I'd just confessed to murder.
Why did that feel so... loaded?
Why did it matter?
Why did she matter?
I hadn't known her more than a few hours, and yet there was this strange gravity to her. Like she was a glitch in the simulation. Something that wasn't supposed to happen, but did. Like the universe coughed up a broken piece of glass and it happened to smile at me.
My phone vibrated.
I rolled over, heart skipping a beat.
1 New Message. Instagram.
Raven: "Took you long enough."
I smiled like an idiot.
Typed back: "Was busy emotionally repressing."
Three dots. She was typing.
Raven: "Same. Wanna trauma bond over shitty memes?"
And just like that, the night got a little less heavy.
We sent memes until 2 a.m.
Stuff that was borderline unhinged. Like a taxidermy raccoon playing piano. A pigeon with a knife. A still from Midsommar captioned, me at family dinner.
At some point, she sent a picture of a painting she made.
It was weird and messy and brilliant. Black and red swirls with a single crooked window in the middle. She didn't say anything about it. Just sent it like it spoke more than she could.
I stared at that painting for a long time.
Not sure why.
Just did.
Maybe because it looked like how I felt. Trapped. Screaming through color. Trying to make sense of something that didn't want to be understood.
I typed: "That's dope. Feels like A24's wet dream."
She sent back: "Good. That's the energy I was going for."
And then: "Thanks, Eli."
I stared at that one for a while.
Two words.
But they hit hard.
I typed: "For what?"
She replied: "For not letting me be invisible."
I didn't reply right away.
Instead, I closed my eyes and let the quiet settle around me like a weighted blanket made of ghosts.
For once, the silence didn't crush me.
It held me.
I stayed like that for a while. Just lying there. Letting my overcooked brain hum in the dark. My phone buzzed once more.
Raven:
"Okay I'm crashing. Try not to spiral too hard without me."
I replied:
"No promises. I'm professionally unhinged."
Raven:
"Same. Night, weirdo."
Me:
"Night, Wednesday."
That was it.
Just silence again, but softer this time. Like the kind of quiet you get after a really good song ends. The world didn't feel fixed. Nothing was suddenly okay. But there was this... flicker. This stupid, stubborn flicker of something that felt dangerously close to hope.
I turned over, tugged my blanket up like it could protect me from my own thoughts, and let the weight of the day press down in the gentlest way.
Sleep didn't come fast, but it came easier than usual.
And for once, I didn't dream of falling.
I dreamt of her laughing.