She didn't read my email. So maybe she wasn't avoiding me and maybe this is all some stupid misunderstanding and I'm just...being needy. Too clingy. Expecting too much. "You know. Stuff. Look, I was wondering if maybe I could come down for a visit? I've got the van, so..."

Another long pause wherein I make out muffled voices and laughter in the background. She's out with friends. A new boyfriend, maybe. I try to give my hands something to do by opening a cupboard and pulling out cups to pack. Small, porcelain things. Very delicate. Maggie used them for tea.

"Look... I'm not sure that's a great idea."

My insides curl and tighten with a million painful little reminders that I exist more than I want to. "I emailed you the other day. I could really..." Deep breath. Gripping a cup tighter than I should. "I could really stand to see you right now, you know? It's been over a year. "And I need you. I need you, I need you, I need you.

I need something. Someone.

"Exactly, Vin, it's been over a year. I mean, it was great when you lived down here, right? It was cool. But...maybe ,you know, you should get some friends up there?"

I look down at the cup in my hands, and let it fall to the floor where it breaks into a hundred tiny pieces.

Just like that. She's moved on. No more room for me, right?

Forgotten.

The second falls, shatters.

Like every foster home who has shuffled me off with excuses. Like my parents did when they decided they couldn't keep me. Corey was the one person I held out hope for that wouldn't do this to me, and I think of what Maggie used to say, Humans are imperfect. That's all there is to it. And, boy, was she right. I'm the most imperfect of them all.

"Vin?"

Another cup bites the dust.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"I should go... I'm sorry." The funny thing is, she sounds like she means it.

"Sure." I hear her sit there a moment longer, as though debating. Feeling bad, maybe. When I don't say anything further, Corey says "Good bye, Vinny," and hangs up.

One more cup. The last of the four-piece set. The sound it makes is satisfying for nothing more than a fleeting second.

I wonder if Corey will read my email. I hope she doesn't. I've never wanted to be in anyone's way—most of all, Corey's—and if leaving me behind is what she wants, then I—

What does it matter anymore?

#

Around midnight, I pull on sweat-pants and a t-shirt and go out for a run. Instead of my usual route passing by the Woodshire bridge, I cross it, and come to a halt at the spot I saw Jessica the Jumper on Christmas Eve.

I remember her serene face and wonder what would have happened if I'd stopped her. If I had run over, grabbed the back of her plaid coat and dragged her away from the ledge. Would she have been grateful or would she have hated me for getting in the way? Because when someone is so close to the edge that plummeting seventy miles per hour to your death becomes a better option than sloshing through one more day, you have to wonder if they really want to be saved.