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To the driver of the bus that killed me:

I’m sorry.

Know that you are not responsible for the accident. Lately, trying to live my life has been like sailing a boat full of holes. There are holes in my bank account, holes at work and a big hole where my heart used to be. No matter how fast I bailed or how hard I tried to fill those holes, I continued to go under.

I decided to go under for the last time. Under the wheels of your bus.

I’m sorry it had to be you, thank you for setting me free.

Tristan

 

Tristan leaned over the railing of the bridge while the wind whipped inside his clothes and fluttered in the pocket over his heart. There was a note inside his coat, the same note he’d been carrying every day for the last two weeks, a note waiting for his resolve to steel. The black water churned below him as he left for he understood that today he would take that step.

Minutes later, toes on the edge of the curb and the note in the pocket over his beating heart, he saw the girl standing on the opposite sidewalk.

She had a sloppy beauty, as though designed directly by the hand of God while he was holding a kindergarten pencil and not worried about staying in the lines. Her tiny face was framed by thick strokes of hair that dangled in rough blonde scribbles around the blue-black smears of her eyes and the burgundy stains of her lips so full they were drawn in a permanent pout. Until the corners rose in a smile as her eyes lit on him.

Tristan didn’t even see the bus coming as he stepped in the street to meet her.

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