It had been two agonizing weeks since the accident that had ripped my life apart.

Each day was a struggle, a fight against the weight of grief that threatened to pull me under.

But life, in its relentless march forward, refused to let me stay in the darkness forever.

One day, the truck driver who had been responsible for the crash came to visit me.

I wasn’t prepared to see him.

The moment he stepped into my room, I could see the turmoil in his eyes, the heavy burden of guilt he carried.

He looked as though he had aged years in just weeks, his shoulders hunched with the weight of what he had done.

His apology was sincere, his voice trembling as he expressed his deep regret.

I could hear the pain in his words, could see how much courage it had taken for him to come here, to face the man whose life he had shattered.

But no matter how genuine his remorse, I couldn’t bring myself to forgive him.

My heart was too raw, too broken.

The mere sight of him stirred up all the anger and sorrow I had been trying so hard to keep at bay.

"I'm sorry, but I can’t do this," I finally managed to say, my voice hollow. "Please, don’t come here again."

He nodded, his face crumpling in defeat.

Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click that echoed in the silence of the room.

The pain in his eyes lingered with me, but so did my own, and I couldn’t find it in myself to feel anything but a hollow emptiness.

Despite this, my friends, neighbors, and colleagues continued to visit, their concern unwavering.

They tried their best to lift my spirits, to coax me out of the suffocating fog of despair.

With their support, I slowly began to improve. It wasn’t much, but it was something—one small step at a time.

I was now able to walk on my own, though still with the aid of crutches.

Each step was a reminder of how much I had lost, yet also a sign of progress.

The doctors were cautiously optimistic, telling me that if I continued to improve, I might be able to leave the hospital in another week or two.

But even as my body healed, my heart remained broken, each day a battle to find the strength to keep going.

The road ahead was long, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever truly move on.

But for now, I was still here, still fighting, even if I didn’t know why.

"Oh! You've finished your plate," the nurse remarked as she entered my room, her voice carrying the usual hint of cheerfulness.

She glanced at the empty plate beside my bed, her expression brightening as though it were a small victory.

"Yes," I replied, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth or emotion.

"Great! If you keep this up, you'll be healed up in no time," she said, her tone full of encouragement.

She always tried to bring a bit of light into the room, her energy almost infectious, though it barely touched me.

She busied herself with tidying up, her movements quick and efficient.

Normally, her chatter would have filled the room, but today, she seemed more subdued, perhaps sensing my mood.

"Where is my friend and the others?" I asked, my tone icy, almost mechanical.

I didn’t really care, but the silence in the room was unbearable.

"They said they'd be here in a few hours," she replied, glancing up from her task.

There was a hint of concern in her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a smile.

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"Hmm," I muttered, nodding absently.

She hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating whether to say more.

"You’ve got really great people by your side," she added softly, her voice filled with genuine warmth.

"I know," I said, my tone still as cold as ever.

I did know, and that was part of what made everything so much harder.

Their care and concern only highlighted how hollow I felt inside.

She noticed the clock and her eyes widened slightly.

"Oh! I need to go now. Ring the bell if you need any help," she said, quickly gathering the plate before heading toward the door.

As she left, the door closed with a quiet click, leaving me alone once more in the suffocating silence of the room.

The empty walls seemed to close in on me, and I found myself staring at the spot where she had stood, wondering how people could still smile and move forward so easily when I felt like I was stuck in place, unable to move on.

The minutes dragged on, each one stretching out into an eternity.

The world outside continued to turn, but for me, time had stopped, leaving me trapped in a never-ending cycle of grief and despair.

I knew, deep down, that I was surrounded by great people.

My friends, my colleagues, even my neighbors—they were all there for me, steadfast in their support.

They came every day, taking time out of their lives to sit by my side, to talk to me, to try and pull me out of the dark pit I had fallen into.

Their efforts were genuine, their concern palpable.

But with every visit, every kind word, and every attempt to lift my spirits, a bitter truth gnawed at me: I was slowly becoming a burden to them.

They had lives to live, families to care for, jobs that demanded their attention.

I often overheard them on the phone, speaking in hushed tones to their families or dealing with work issues, trying to balance their responsibilities with their need to be there for me.

They were stretched thin, yet they kept coming, refusing to abandon me.

It was as if they had made it their mission to save me, even when I didn’t want to be saved.

And that’s what made it so unbearable. I was dragging them down with me, pulling them into my darkness.

They were wasting their precious time on someone who was too broken to be fixed.

I could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the way their smiles would falter when they thought I wasn’t looking.

I knew they wouldn’t give up on me—that they would keep coming, keep trying to help me until there was nothing left of them.

But I couldn’t let that happen.

I couldn’t continue to be the weight that held them back, that slowly drained them of their energy and their hope.

I had already lost everything that mattered to me—my wife, my daughter, my will to live.

I couldn’t bear the thought of taking more from the people who still cared about me.

And that’s why I decided to do it.

To end the suffering, not just for me, but for them.

If I were gone, they could finally move on with their lives, unencumbered by the constant worry and the endless attempts to pull me back from the edge.

As I lay in that hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, the decision solidified in my mind.

The thought brought a strange kind of peace, a sense of resolution that had been absent for so long.

And maybe, in doing so, I would finally find some peace of my own.

The corridor was bustling with the usual morning routine—nurses discussing patient charts, doctors making rounds, the quiet hum of machines filling the air.

But amidst the ordinary, an urgent undertone began to ripple through the hospital.

"That patient’s condition seems to have improved a lot," one nurse remarked casually, her voice carrying a note of relief.

"Are you talking about the patient in ward no. 47?" another nurse responded, glancing over at the clock as their shift neared its next task.

"Yes," the first nurse confirmed.

"When he cried, it was really pitiful. I’m glad that he’s getting better."

"Yeah, it’s a good thing," the second nurse agreed, a soft smile on her face.

"Anyway, it’s time for his inspection. You should go now."

"Yes, I’m going," the first nurse replied, her steps light as she made her way down the hall, feeling a flicker of hope that today would be another small step forward in his recovery.

But as she opened the door to Ward 47, her heart plummeted into her stomach.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were rumpled as if they had been hastily abandoned, and the room was eerily silent.

"Mr. Michael?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly.

The room, which had once been a place of slow healing, now felt like a hollow shell.

She rushed back into the hallway, her panic rising like a tide.

"Doctor! Doctor! Mr. Michael is not in his ward!"

The doctor, who had been reviewing charts nearby, snapped his head up, his eyes widening in alarm.

"What? Find him as soon as possible!" he ordered, the calm routine of the morning shattered in an instant.

The urgency of the situation spread through the hospital like wildfire.

Nurses, doctors, and staff all mobilized, their voices echoing through the halls as they called out my name.

"Michael! Michael!"

Their footsteps pounded against the linoleum floors as they searched every corner, every stairwell, every hidden nook of the hospital.

My friends, who had been downstairs grabbing a quick coffee, were alerted and immediately joined the frantic search.

Steve’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran through the corridors, the fear clawing at him with every step.

"Michael! Where are you?" he shouted, his voice thick with desperation.

But there was no response.

The empty rooms and quiet corners offered no clues, no sign of where I had gone.

The hospital, usually so full of life and routine, now felt like a maze with no end, each turn leading only to more uncertainty and fear.

As the minutes stretched on, the initial panic gave way to a deep, gnawing dread.

Where could I have gone?

What could I be thinking?

The thought of me, alone and in pain, out there somewhere, was almost too much to bear.

The hospital, so used to the rhythm of healing, was now gripped by a terrifying silence.

And with each passing moment, the fear that something irreversible had happened grew stronger.

The wind whipped around me as I stood on the edge of the hospital terrace, the city sprawling out below in a blur of lights and distant noise.

Steve's words echoed in my mind, a bitter reminder of the truth I could no longer bear.

"Face the reality."

His voice had been firm, almost pleading.

He believed in those words, in the power of confronting the truth and finding a way to move forward.

But the reality I had been left with—the empty space where my wife and daughter used to be—was a reality I couldn’t face.

It was a suffocating darkness that clung to me, pulling me deeper into despair with every passing day.

I leaned forward slightly, the edge of the building sharp against my palms.

The height was dizzying, but I felt strangely calm.

This was the last place I could find peace, the only escape from the unbearable weight of living without them.

"I'm not strong enough to face this reality," I whispered to the wind, feeling the words slip away into the cold air.

"But I'm sure you are, Steve."

My heart ached as I thought of him, of everyone who had tried so hard to pull me back from the edge.

But their efforts felt like drops in a vast ocean of grief. I was drowning, and no one could save me.

"I'm sorry, my friend."

The words were barely audible as I closed my eyes, letting the tears slip down my cheeks one last time.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. Chloe. For taking such a cowardly path."

Images of their faces flashed before my eyes—Sarah’s bright smile, Chloe’s innocent laughter.

I wanted to hold onto them, to remember every detail, but they were slipping away, just like everything else.

All I could do was apologize to them, over and over, as I took that final step forward.

The sensation of falling was surreal, a rush of wind and gravity pulling me down.

I kept my eyes closed, the tears stinging as I whispered apologies to everyone into the void.

My heart pounded in my chest, but there was a strange peace in knowing that this pain would soon end. I would finally be free.

The impact was sudden, a sharp jolt that stole the breath from my lungs.

But in that brief moment before everything went dark, I saw them—Steve, Mr Thomas, my manager, the doctors, the nurses—all surrounding me.

Steve’s face was a mess of tears and horror, his voice a distant echo as he cried out my name.

Others were also crying and shouting something.

But unlike them, there was a smile on my face.

Somehow, I found a small comfort in the thought that maybe, just maybe, this was the way I would be reunited with Sarah and Chloe.

That this was the end of my suffering.

As the darkness closed in and my vision blurred, the last thing I saw was Steve’s face, broken, devastated and filled with tears, as my hand tried to wipe his tears.

"Don’t... cry... don't cry..."

I wanted to tell him I was sorry, to thank him for everything, but the words never came.

And then, my arm fell down and everything suddenly went quiet.

The world faded away, and with it, the pain, the sorrow, the unbearable weight of reality.

The only thing left was a faint hope, a whisper of peace as my heart finally stopped beating.