Chapter 4

A pain that we never confessed to anyone else became exposed; making it very clear that I had only prevented his death because I would like someone to do that for me. That I was so disturbed by my problems and the awareness that I would loosen the rope of life at the first opportunity, that when we finally met, it was like recognizing a lover of years. It was like feeling at home.

I waited for the moment when Edward would be upset and annoyed by my interruption. I waited for him to fight at the top of his lungs for my thoughtless attitude, which could cause him to commit an unintentional murder, taking me with him to those waters. His suicide was already a murder, but of course, he could never be convicted of that crime. I would understand if he started screaming about my lack of sense while holding our bodies and keeping us at arm's length, and his eyes never left mine.

But he didn't fight.

Edward didn't yell at me. He didn't ask me to leave him alone. He didn't even tell me to move away because I didn't understand the pain that had brought him there, instead, he just said:

"It was a difficult day," and amid the cold winds that tilted the metallic details in the leather jacket that Edward wore, I remember perfectly saying something like:

"There is a coffee shop nearby where they serve bad bread and cold coffee. Come with me. Maybe this will change something in our difficult day."

Being a teenager from a privileged family and considered even somewhat beautiful, I never had problems finding words to convince a boy my age to accompany me wherever I went. Most of them offered to do anything that could increase my esteem. Edward, however, whether for being older than me or anything else, left me with the embarrassing feeling that he could refuse me and make me feel ridiculous. I invited him to get out of there just to have enough time to understand what was happening to him, not to allow him to do exactly what I so often thought of doing and never had the courage.

For another long time, Edward didn't answer. He just watched me and again looked down the bridge, where the waters ran smoothly, calling by his name. Edward watched death waiting for him in his fall, and back to me. I had the feeling of being a kind of lifeline, of being the hot hope on a cold and deadly night. And when Edward simply stretched out his hand towards me, making me hold it on impulse, our united fingers made me aware that he was choosing, at least at that moment, to hold the rope of life for another second. Just for one more second. And that was enough for me.

I don't know how he could have accepted the idea so easily. He had a stubborn and impassive man posture, and maybe it was just because of his habit of seeing the uglier and darker side of people that made him hold my hand and take us away from there. If it were for the reason that only the gods can know, at least I made him laugh, right there, in the face of what would have been his end, if my night had been good enough not to leave the party with my friends earlier, and not have walked home and consequently passed the shortest path, where I would find him.

I prevented him from making the decision that would take his life that night, but one day I wouldn't be there to save him again. One day, I would get tired, and one day, there would only be the chaos that your death would leave in my heart.

Edward was, and still is, the first and only love I had. The one who taught me to smile and feel a glimpse of what his enigmatic essence spread in our world.

And I hope you understand what this man's freedom cost, and what his presence meant to each friend and secret love, because I still have something to say in this letter, and I hope you are here to read.

Because it was difficult for Edward to feel loved in a place where no one could understand that the colors limited him, and stole his energy. That the beams of lights could blind him.

But I do.

I understood.

I felt your pain.

And I still feel it.

Even if, floating in the waters where the world allows itself to darken, it can no longer feel me.

The nearest snack bar to the bridge was on a narrow street, where cars could only follow a single hand. And, still without exchanging many words, Edward directed us to the establishment of red and erased colors in the middle of every night, where he opened a door that produced a clinking of the bell above the threshold, and the comforting heat of the place immediately enveloped us. The place was partially empty; not counting the employees who remained sadly anxious for the time to end their shift, and an elderly couple sitting at the bottom of the hall, sharing pancakes.

I had been there a few times last summer. I would never have discovered the existence of that place if, on one of the trips out of the city with my brother, he was not putting up with wanting to go to the bathroom, and that was the closest place to the entrance to the city we found. Of course, if the trip had been made with our parents, we would never have stopped there. We came from a very rich and well-known family, so attending places less than perfectly in hygienic conditions for the operation was the minimum.

That afternoon on the last day of the school holidays, my brother and I were coming back from a trip with our school friends. So no one gave much importance to the gnawed PVC curtains that hid the large fat-stained windows of the cafeteria, nor to the unstitched upholstery that surrounded the tables like small sofas, nor to the extremely limited menu and glued to the tables by the years of use. It was a pleasant afternoon that brought me good memories, despite everything.