Chapter 7
Iwas ten minutes early. I didn’t know why.
Maybe because it was either I came here early, or I sat in my apartment with the smell of dirty dishes and existential dread hovering in the air.
The waiting room had a scent like someone had tried to cover up sadness with a citrus essential oil blend.
It puffed out, every few minutes, from the bamboo automatic air freshener on the end table on the opposite side of the room.
It didn’t work. It just made the sadness taste fruity and bitter.
I didn’t bother knocking when she called me in.
The door was slightly ajar. Iris sat in the same damn chair with her legs crossed the same damn way, her little notebook in her lap.
Her hair was mainly tucked behind one ear, though some had escaped and curled around her temples in wayward wisps. She smiled when she saw me.
“Hi, Danny.”
I sat down across from her, collapsing a little too hard. My annoyance came off a little dramatic. “Hi.”
The chair felt smaller than last time. Or maybe I just felt more obvious.
Like my body took up too much space in this room meant for healing, for hope.
I hated how my knee bounced. I hated that I couldn’t stop it.
It was like my nervous system was not down for this session even though my body was here.
Her eyes had that look when she observed me again—kind, too kind—and I hated how it made my chest feel itchy. I hated, even more, that I noticed the way her cardigan matched her lipstick, soft and plum-colored and somehow… it looked perfect on her. I hated that I noticed her lips at all.
God, I needed to stop noticing things.
“How’s your week been?”
“Fantastic,” I said dryly. “I only googled new ways to commit suicide twice.”
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t flinch. “Progress.”
“Joking.”
“Still progress.”
She was quick with her comebacks, and she seemed to exist so effortlessly, like she had no idea what it felt like to be uncomfortable in your own skin. I hated that too.
Like last time, we sat in silence a little too long, and I regretted not bringing something to fiddle with. My hands kept twitching in my lap like they didn’t know what to do when they weren’t researching places to die or holding a GoPro.
“You left us with a big one last session,” she said eventually, flipping open her notebook.
“I did?”
“You asked, why do people have to be forced to stay alive?”
I leaned back in the chair. “Yeah, well. I didn’t mean to ruin the vibe or whatever.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” She studied me. “Would you like to unpack that?”
I shrugged. “What’s there to unpack? The world loses its shit over someone wanting out. We act like death is the worst thing that could happen. You’re alive. You should know. This world and living in it is a shit show.”
She nodded slowly, not writing anything. “Go on.”
I blinked. “That’s it. Life sucks. It’s taxes and heartbreak and trauma and traffic. And then you die anyway. So what’s the point of all the crap in between? If we’re all going to die eventually, why is it so bad that I choose to go a little earlier than the rest of you?”
“You think life is mostly bad.”
I snorted. “No. I think life is inherently bad.”
“Why?”
I could tell she wanted me to talk. I could also tell she was good at not pushing too hard. But the thing was, when someone actually wanted to listen—it was weirdly harder for me to stay silent. I sighed and let myself talk.
“Because it’s all pain, Iris. It’s waking up tired. It’s knowing people don’t care, or worse, it’s knowing people hurt you and then people still didn’t care. You go through shit you never asked for, and then the world expects you to just… move on. Smile. Forgive. Try again. Why? For what?”
“For connection. For meaning.”
I laughed without humor. “Connection? People don’t connect.
They comment. They repost. They call it inspiring so they don’t have to look at their own lives too hard.
They say, “so relatable,” and then scroll to some influencer making pancakes for her golden doodle.
It’s not real. None of it is real. I have millions of subscribers who ‘love me,’ and not one of them truly cares how miserable I am.
None of them will think about it that long when I die. ”
“I doubt that’s all true.”
“It is. You know how many comments I get every time I almost die on camera? Hundreds of ‘you’re so brave,’ and ‘God damn that was close.’ You know how many people messaged me to ask if I needed to talk? If I was actually okay? Two. Out of millions.”
She tilted her head. “And those two?”
I waved it off. “Some dude in Denmark who just wanted to trauma bond and an eighteen-year-old girl who thinks I’m cool because I stood under lightning.”
“That sounds like a possibility for connection.”
“Yeah, well. Not enough to keep me tethered. Not enough to make me care.”
She looked at me carefully, like she was searching for something behind my cynicism.
“Why do you think other people are afraid of death?”
“Because they don’t have the balls to admit that they’re miserable. They think there is something here to miss. But I think nothingness has got to be better than… all of this.” I waved my hand around her cozy office as if it represented the shit show that I said the world was.
I hadn’t meant to say that. I hadn’t meant for it to come out with that much venom. But it did, and now it sat there alive and buzzing between us.
Iris leaned in just slightly. “What if they’re not miserable? What if they love someone? What if they’re excited to be alive for their children, or their partner, or even for hope? Curiosity of what tomorrow will bring.”
“That’s great for them,” I said. “I don’t have any of that.
And I don’t want anyone to try to convince me that I do.
I don’t. I never did. Maybe life is nice for someone like you.
You probably have a husband and two kids at home.
A cat. A hobby other than driving me crazy.
My life isn’t like that.” I almost laughed but I didn’t.
She kept her eyes solidly on me as if she could see what my intestines were doing. I squirmed.
“What would it be like if you did have someone?” she finally asked.
I hesitated. What would it be like? Probably like trying to breathe underwater. The idea of someone touching me without hurting me… felt laughable. Unattainable. Dangerous even. Connection felt like a gamble I couldn’t afford to lose. I shrugged.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t want anyone. I don’t… do people.”
She didn’t respond right away. She just watched me again. Not with pity, but with a kind of silent curiosity that made me feel like a museum exhibit.
“I think you do people more than you realize,” she said softly.
I looked away. There was a clock on the wall, and I stared at it for longer than I needed to. The second hand ticked like it was mocking me.
“You’re over time,” I muttered eventually.
She smiled. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do. You’re wasting your time.”
“You’re not a waste of time.”
I closed my eyes for a beat, letting the silence swell. I didn’t want to feel that thing blooming in my chest. This thing that felt dangerously close to… being affected by what she had said. Finally, I opened my mouth to end it. To say something cutting or cold. But she beat me to it.
“I watched your videos,” she informed me.
My head snapped toward her. “What?”
She had the decency to look sheepish. “I wanted to understand. I figured if I am going to be your life coach, I should know what dying means to you.”
I stared at her. “What about HIPAA or whatever?” I mumbled.
She held up her hands. “I’m not a therapist, Danny. I’m a life coach. I can watch whatever I want.”
I blinked. “That… doesn’t feel legal.”
She laughed. “It’s not illegal.”
“Still weird.”
“Still helpful.”
I shook my head. “Okay.” I said it with finality, like I didn’t care what she thought of them, although I did. It sickened me that I did.
“I think…” She paused. “I think you’ve lived more in a year and a half than most people do in a lifetime.”
I didn’t say anything. Because something about that sentence made my throat tighten.
“And I think,” she added, “you don’t want to die as much as you want someone to understand why you don’t want to stay.”
I hated that she was probably right. I hated it so much. I stood up abruptly. “Cool. Well. That’s enough soul-probing for one day. I’m gonna go shower all this woo woo stuff off me.”
She stood too, brushing her skirt down, bringing my attention to her legs. I quickly looked away.
“I’ll see you next week?”
“Unless I get struck by lightning.”
She didn’t laugh. Instead, she looked at me and said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”
I wanted to tell her to shut up. Instead, I muttered, “Thanks,” and turned toward the door.
As I opened it, she added, “By the way… your Tesla coil video? It was a lot. But also kind of beautiful.”
I froze; my hand tightened on the doorknob.
I could practically feel the way the air had vibrated around me that day, like God himself was deciding whether or not to take me.
I didn’t look back. Because I hated that I wanted to know what she meant by beautiful.
I hadn’t been called beautiful since I was a kid, and back then, it had been the opposite of safe.
But I hated, even more, that I was looking forward to next week.
After my session, back on my couch, I opened my laptop and created a new document. I thought about writing a new letter. A second one. A backup. Maybe to Iris, maybe to no one in particular.
I typed the words “still here.” Then backspaced. Then typed it again.
There was nothing else to say. That was it. Because it wasn’t a confession or a cry for help. It was a report. A fucking status update. I’m still here. And why? Well, I already knew that answer. I’m here because the world hasn’t killed me yet.
But it’s trying.
And so am I.