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205words2026-01-27 09:13

My sister called me nine times before she killed herself. I missed every call.
Everyone says I'm the one who killed her.
Even my fiancé.

The people who onceheld me through my depression now shoved me down in disgust.
They told me coldly, "You don't deserve happiness."
And yet, the night my depression relapsed — the night I decided I would trade one life for another — they suddenly regretted it.
When I was discharged from the hospital it was drizzling outside.
The doctor was a kindly, middle-aged woman.
She looked at my test results on the computer, tapping her fingers on the desk before turning to me with gentle concern:

"Given your current state, I still recommend inpatient care."
I pressed my lips together and didn't answer.
She didn't mind and kept going:
"It's okay if you don't want to. I'll prescribe some more antidepressants."

"But the root of this… it's still your family. If possible, you should try to have a good conversation with your mother."
My hands instinctively curl, nails digging into my palms.
As I was leaving she looked at me and said, "You have a wonderful partner who's always been by your side. Love and company are the best medicine."