Today is the thirtieth day I've thought about killing myself.
Not passively. Not in that distant, philosophical way people like to romanticize. I mean really thought about it—planned it, revisited it, carried it around like a quiet option in my pocket.
When people leave your life, it doesn't happen all at once. They don't disappear physically, not at first. They just… stop being there. Mentally. Emotionally. Gradually.
And when that happens, you start replacing them. First with yourself. Then with anything that doesn't walk away—objects, plants, silence.
Yesterday, I spent twenty-five minutes talking to a flower growing through a crack in the asphalt. Purple petals. Thin stem. Completely out of place.
I told it everything—my day, my thoughts, the parts I don't say out loud anymore.
It only gave me one answer:
I'm alive. Even the asphalt couldn't stop me.
You've heard them too. Don't pretend you haven't.
Plants. Objects. Animals.
They all talk. You just chose not to listen.
The tree outside my window is speaking right now. Its branches move slightly, like hesitation.
I've seen as much as you have, it says. More, maybe. But I can't tell anyone about it.
What's the point of seeing everything… if it dies with you?
That flower reminded me of Sepideh.
I didn't expect her to matter. People usually don't.
It started a little over a month ago. I was sitting in my apartment in west Tehran, watching something meaningless, when someone knocked on the door.
I opened it.
Mr. Majidi—my landlord and my neighbor—stood there, holding a piece of paper.
"What is this?" he asked.
I glanced at it. "I think you should tell me."
His jaw tightened. He raised the page and read:
"When I think about suicide, I think of Omid. The neighbor across from us. He tells me the truth about the world. He says it's all empty… and maybe leaving is the best option."
Silence.
"I took this from my son's notebook," he said. "Your name is everywhere."
I should've felt guilty.
I didn't.
There was something else instead. Something sharper.
Curiosity.
There's a certain kind of power in words. If you say the right thing at the right time… you can move someone closer to the edge.
"I won't let you poison my family," he continued. "You're coming with me. Now. You're going to fix this."
His son's name was Yasin.
Pale. Quiet. Too aware.
He was lying on his bed when we walked in. He looked at me.
"Omid? What are you doing here?"
"I came to apologize."
That got his attention. "For what?"
"All those talks we had," I said. "The philosophical ones. I was messing with you. I don't believe any of it."
A lie.
Or maybe something worse.
Yasin watched me carefully. "I still believe it."
His father stepped forward immediately. "No, you don't. He just said—"
"I didn't say it wasn't real," I interrupted.
Silence.
"I said I don't believe in it. That's not the same thing."
Mr. Majidi's stare could've cut glass.
Yasin leaned back, uninterested. "Okay. If that's all, I'm listening to music."
We left.
The door closed.
"You have three days," Mr. Majidi said quietly. "Find somewhere else to live."
I met Sepideh the day I moved in.
Black hair. Dark eyes. A white dress with small pink flowers.
She smiled like she meant it.
"Hi. You must be the new neighbor."
For a second, I forgot how to respond.
"Yeah," I said. "Just moved in."
Then I added something I didn't mean:
"I'm glad you're my neighbor."
I don't know why I said that.
People don't make me feel anything. Not even beautiful ones.
But something about her stayed.
It's been thirty days.
Thirty days since I was forced out of my last place.
Thirty days since suicide stopped being an idea… and became a possibility. A plan.
Sepideh made it quieter.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
We don't talk much—just small conversations in the hallway.
But she listens.
She doesn't call me crazy. Doesn't tell me to get help.
She just disagrees. Every time.
Like she's pulling me in the opposite direction on purpose.
And yet—
There's something wrong.
Something behind that smile.
Something big enough that she has to hide it under exaggerated happiness.
Maybe I should tell her.
People are supposed to share these thoughts with the ones closest to them.
Which is unfortunate.
Because the closest person I have…
is someone I occasionally see in a hallway.
That's almost pathetic.
Still—
Thinking about her brings color into a black-and-white world.
Not enough to keep me alive.
But enough to make me pause.
I once read that anything said before "but" doesn't matter.
Maybe that's why my life is full of them.
But—
Something feels different tonight.
I don't know why.
I don't know how.
But for the first time in thirty days…
it feels like something is about to happen.