I don’t know where you’re reading this from.
Maybe it’s your bed. Maybe it’s the bathroom floor. Maybe it’s the front seat of your car, engine off, phone in your lap, wondering if anyone would even notice if you were gone by morning.
Wherever you are, I know this: you don’t need another empty promise.
You don’t need me to tell you it’s all going to get better.
Because right now, it doesn’t feel like it will.
And I won’t lie.
The Edge
There’s a silence that comes before the decision. Not peace — no, it’s never peace. It’s that thick quiet where everything inside you feels hollow, like your body has already left and you’re just the last one to realize.
I’ve been there.
I was face-down on the bathroom tile once, chest heaving, breath coming in jagged bursts like a fish thrown out of water. My skin clammy, my head pounding, my body both burning and freezing. And in that moment, I wanted death more than anything. Not because I hated life, but because I couldn’t stand living it anymore.
I thought ending it was mercy.
I thought disappearing was kindness.
And maybe you know that thought too.
Death Is Greedy
Here’s the truth nobody told me when I was clawing for air: death is greedy.
It doesn’t just take the pain.
It takes everything.
Every word you never got to say. Every hug you never gave. Every scar that could have told a story bigger than your silence. Every chance to rewrite what’s been written.
When you go, the pain gets the last word. It wins. It stamps your ending in ink you never meant to choose.
And I know—maybe you don’t care right now. Maybe you think letting the pain win is fine, because you’re too tired to keep fighting. I’ve been there too.
But what if I told you the pain isn’t the author?
What if I told you there’s still a line left to write?
Why Stay?
I’m not asking you to stay because tomorrow will magically be lighter.
I’m not asking you to stay because people love you and you should “think of them.”
I’m not asking you to stay because you’re supposed to be grateful or blessed.
Forget all that.
Here’s the only reason that matters: if you stay, the pain doesn’t get the last word.
You do.
And that’s one good reason.
The Knock at Midnight
Sometimes I still hear him—the version of me that didn’t make it.
He knocks inside my chest, late at night, asking if I remember him. The boy on the bathroom floor. The man with the needle in his arm. The drunk clawing at the bottle like it was oxygen.
I remember.
I always will.
But I buried him.
I had to.
Because if he lived, I wouldn’t. And the fact that I’m here, writing this to you, means I chose one reason to step back when I wanted to step off.
That’s what I’m asking of you right now. Not forever. Just tonight.
What Survival Really Means
Let me be blunt: survival isn’t pretty.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not some Instagram-ready recovery arc where you post a smiling photo and tell the world you “made it.”
Survival is blood on your sleeves from pulling the glass out of your own skin.
It’s the kind of crying that makes no sound, just your whole chest collapsing in on itself.
It’s nights you shake so hard you wonder if your body is trying to crawl out of itself.
And yet—it’s survival.
And survival matters because survival is proof.
Proof that the pain didn’t finish the story.
Proof that you held on long enough to make it here, to these words, to this exact moment.
You might think that doesn’t mean much. But it does. Because survival isn’t invisible. It leaves marks. And those marks tell the truth: you stayed when everything in you screamed to go.
The Lie That Silence Tells
I know what your head is telling you right now.
“You’re weak.”
“You’re a burden.”
“You’re just faking it for attention.”
“Nobody would miss you.”
Those are lies silence plants in your chest. Lies that echo until they sound like your own voice.
But they’re not yours.
I’ve had people tell me the same. That my depression was drama. That my addiction was choice. That my thoughts of ending it all were selfish. And you know what that did? It buried me deeper. It made me doubt whether my pain was even real.
But here’s the truth: pain doesn’t need anyone else’s permission to be real. If you’re feeling it, it’s real.
And that means your survival is real, too.
One Night
Don’t think about forever. Don’t think about five years from now, or even next month.
Think about tonight.
Can you stay alive tonight?
Can you give yourself one more night to steal the pen back from the pain?
Because that’s what matters.
Not forever.
Not some grand destiny.
Just tonight.
Because if you survive tonight, you prove the story isn’t finished.
Proof
Recently, someone told me they were ready to go. Seventeen years old. Depressed. Overstimulated. Pushed aside by people who told them their pain wasn’t real. They messaged me, one step away from ending it all.
And then they said this:
“I am going to stay. For me. For what I can be.”
Do you feel the weight of that?
Not for applause. Not for validation. Not even for me.
For themselves.
For what they can become.
That’s survival in its rawest form. Not pretty, not polished—but powerful as hell.
And if they can do that, so can you.
Your Reason
I’m not asking you to believe in hope.
I’m not asking you to trust tomorrow.
I’m not even asking you to want to live.
I’m asking you to stay alive because the pain doesn’t get to write your ending.
You do.
Stay alive tonight.
Not forever. Just tonight.
Because your scars deserve to outlive your wounds.
And one day, someone else will be standing on their edge. And when they hear your story, when they see your scars, when they realize you stayed—that will be their one good reason.
So Here It Is
One good reason to step back:
Because your story isn’t done yet.
Because the world doesn’t need another ghost.
Because you matter more than the silence wants you to believe.
Because staying—even just tonight—proves the pain doesn’t own you.
You do.
Whatever you are facing, there is always hope. And we will hold on to hope until you’re able to grasp it yourself. If you’re thinking about suicide, we encourage you to use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool to locate professional help and to read more stories like this one here. If you reside outside of the US, please browse our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to be connected for free, 24/7 to a trained Crisis Text Line counselor.