We inched closer. The wind on this mental bridge was ferocious. It roared like a jet engine, carrying sounds from the past. I heard snippets of arguments. I heard a woman laughing—Sarah. I heard the sound of a car door slamming.
Adam stood at the very edge. His toes were over the precipice. His gray windbreaker whipped around him violently. He was sobbing, but it was a silent, dry heave. His body was exhausted.
"Adam," I said.
He didn't turn. He couldn't hear me. I was just a thought in the back of his head. A quiet, nagging voice of logic that he had tuned out hours ago.
"He can't hear you," Greg rumbled. "He’s too loud inside. The pain is too loud."
"Then we get louder," Desi snarled. She stepped up right next to me. "Hey! Adam! You listen to me, you absolute disaster!"
She screamed it. She screamed with the force of a punk rock concert, with the desperate energy of a last call.
Adam flinched. Just a tiny twitch of his shoulder.
"It’s working," I whispered. "He’s registering the input."
"Adam!" Desi yelled again, tears streaming down her flickering face. "You don't get to quit! The band isn't done playing! You haven't seen the Grand Canyon yet! You haven't eaten the perfect taco! You haven't felt the sun on your face after a long winter! You want to feel something? Then stay and feel it! Don't turn it off!"
She was the Impulse. The Id. The part of him that wanted to consume and enjoy and live. Usually, I spent my entire existence trying to shut her up. I spent years organizing schedules to keep her from doing something stupid.
But right now, her stupidity was the only thing fighting the darkness.
Adam’s hand tightened on the rail. He looked down at the black water swirling miles below.
"It hurts," Adam whispered.
I heard it. We all heard it. It wasn't spoken to us; it was spoken to the universe.
"I know," Greg said.
Greg didn't shout. He didn't step forward. He just... existed. He let his weight drop. He let the heaviness of every sad memory, every failure, every moment of grief expand outward.
"It’s supposed to hurt," Greg said softly to Adam’s back. "That means it was real. The pain is just love with nowhere to go, Adam. It’s heavy. I know it’s heavy. But you don't have to carry it alone."
Greg was the Depression. The Grief. I had spent so much energy trying to "fix" Greg. I tried to medicate him, exercise him, plan him away. I treated him like a bug in the system.
I was wrong. Greg wasn't a bug. He was the ballast. Without the weight of sadness, we would have floated away a long time ago. He was the anchor that kept us grounded in reality.
Adam’s shoulders slumped. He let out a ragged breath. The wind seemed to die down, just a fraction.
"Leo," Desi whispered, looking at me. "Do your thing. Close the deal."
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