I brought the mug to my lips, liking the way the creamy, sizzling chocolate liquid hurtled through my throat. It gave much-needed heat to my chest.

Forrest stole sips of his coffee, leaning back into his chair. His long-sleeved shirt still clung to his skin, but he was drying - just at an awfully slow pace. I was also, but I wished the process would hurry up. It wasn't very comfortable to be sitting in damp bottoms; I couldn't imagine or believe how Forrest was coping with it.

Although I kept a hopefully-impassive face, I was starting to feel rather overwhelmed inside. This was so weird. It was extremely difficult to accept that this was actually taking place. I was just casually in a café, having a drink and pancakes, with someone I wasn't close to at all - and he just happened to prevent me from dying. Definitely just another completely normal Tuesday for sure.

I coughed, placing my mug down. "Uh," I made a gesture to the pancakes, "will we be sharing this?"

Forrest blinked at me before he replied. "Oh, no. It's all yours."

"Are you sure?" When he nodded, I decided not to insist. "All right then." I pulled the plate closer to me and grabbed the fork and knife. As I cut a piece, he set his drink down too.

I focused intently on what I was doing, but from the edge of my vision, I could faintly tell that Forrest was watching me. If I said it wasn't unnerving, I would be lying. I never understood why some people watched others while they ate - could they not sense the discomfort? Not really wanting to acknowledge him, I kept my eyes down towards the pancakes, even while I took the first bite.

Wow. Actually, wow was a terrible understatement. Hot, fluffy sweetness unfolded in my mouth; satisfaction spread through me quickly. I had eaten pancakes before - sometimes made them myself - but they could not compare to what was in front of me now.

Although I was still somewhat self-conscious, I couldn't help but lift my gaze to Forrest. "Okay, um, you weren't kidding when you said these were good."

Confusion ran through his face. "Why would I ever kid about pancakes?"

When I realized he was kidding right then, I snorted. After that, I didn't even bother responding; I just went in for another bite. Again, I became a bit too aware of how his stare never left me, but I shrugged it off. If he wanted to look at me, fine. It wasn't like I could flat-out tell him to stop.

Off at the coffee bar, Perry was wiping the counter while whistling a breezy tune. Besides that, no other people entered the café.

After how-many minutes, three-fourths of the pancakes had gone into my stomach, and I was thoroughly enjoying them. I stayed quiet, taking time to chew. Every time I risked a glance at Forrest, he would seem to be lost in his head. Always coming off as somber, I wondered what he was thinking about.

Eventually, I no longer had to wonder. He opened his mouth and slowly said, "We need to talk."

Oh. I paused. Although he didn't even start, I already knew what he meant. In the back of my mind, I'd actually been anticipating for this to happen - because you didn't just stumble upon a suicidal person without speaking to them about it. Naturally, it was what any decent human being would do.

I heard this kind of talk before, though. People always said the same things - as if these words could easily fix what was wrong. You're not alone and you can get through this and of course, my personal favorite: It could be worse.

The thing is, I actually used to believe in that last one. The words would echo in my mind every day, strictly reminding me that I should be more thankful. But I eventually came to the realization that no matter how fortunate I knew I was, it didn't change my problems or the way I felt. So what if other people experienced worse? Thinking about it weighed me down with guilt, but that was it. It didn't truly help. It was as if I didn't have the right to my own feelings, like just because I didn't have the absolute worst life, I shouldn't be depressed. "It could be worse" so I was automatically supposed to be happy. Right?

I grabbed my mug and gulped down the last of my hot chocolate. Making sure to keep my face blank, I then muttered, "Go ahead." In my head, I added and good luck. Can't wait to hear what you have to say.

He exhaled loudly. I took one last glance at the rest of the pancakes, knowing my appetite was diminishing, being replaced with a certain type of tension. Seconds later, I decided to pay all of my attention to Forrest.

Beneath the glittering fairy lights, I realized that I never quite seized the chance to see him yet. But now, I allowed myself to absorb the sight. I was able to take in all the big aspects and all the little ones. I studied him, from the outline of his pastel lips to his exposed eyes. And my chest tightened as I gazed at them; until now, I never recognized what a striking shade of green they were. Forest green. If I wasn't careful, I knew they would pull me in and I'd never be able to find my way out.

In that - fleeting yet forever - moment, my mind vaguely warned me that I was staring far too long than what was comfortable. But in spite of this, I couldn't help, but mentally remark that he wasn't looking away either. He seemed to be heavily considering me as well and it took practically all I had to not tear my eyes away.

I didn't understand exactly why, but deep down, a part of me wanted him to linger on me. I would never admit it out loud, but I wanted to be marked into his memory, even if I was regarded as a mere stain. This could be the only time we'd ever be with each other. (I had to be realistic - why would he want to bother with me after this? He wouldn't.) That was why . . . I wanted him to memorize me the way I was memorizing him. It was rather strange, but I hoped he would remember me. I hoped I was something worth remembering.

Even though I must have looked awful with my hair wildly entangled, my acne-ridden skin bloodless and clammy, and my eyes weary and dull, I - for the first time in ages - didn't quite let it get to me. Yes, his piercing focus made me feel like I was horribly coming undone, but I also felt secure somehow. It was as if he held this capability to make me feel just fine. Almost like I could trust him. Almost.

Forrest forced a tiny smile, but his eyes, I learned, were so sad, so tired. "Well," he began, "uh, I - believe it or not - am having a very hard time trying to figure out what to say. Like, I want to ask you to explain . . . why, but I have a feeling that the reasons can't be said that easily. I'm guessing you deal with depression, though. Am I right?"

I hesitantly nodded, slightly baffled that he had managed to exceed my expectations once again - and so quickly. He was proving to be much more thoughtful than I believed he was.

Most people could never grasp that depression didn't have a clear-cut definition. Instead of being black-and-white, it was hues of grey, smudged and intricate and 99% impossible to translate.

I was secretly grateful that Forrest wasn't like most people.

"Yeah," he went on, "I remember you said that I have no idea what you've been through, and I agree. I really don't know. But I just want to tell you that," he paused with his mouth open, faltering, "I just want to tell you that I'm sorry."

"Don't take this as pity because it's not," he quickly said. "I want you to know that I'm sorry because . . . I just can't imagine the pain you've been in - pain that hurts so bad that it has made you believe that the only way out is to end your own life." His words sent a pang to my chest. An unfamiliar feeling spread through me, something I didn't know whether to be uneasy about or to embrace.

He cleared his throat. "And I don't want to have to say this, but you're wrong. I mean, suicide is wrong. Really, it's not the only way, not your only choice. It shouldn't even be considered . . . because you don't have to die. You don't have to throw everything away. I get that it's hard to be here, feeling so messed up, but you shouldn't let that make you lose everything." Furrowing his brows, he asked, "Do you understand that, June?" I didn't answer back; my throat grew rigid. Besides, I wasn't even sure if I did understand. So Forrest continued.

"I really want - no, I need - you to know that . . . you're so much more than your problems, than whatever you're dealing with. Just because you're hurting doesn't mean you have to let it take over completely. Because let me tell you this - all the bad things you're going through? They'll be so far away one day . . . With time, you'll find distance growing between the present and the past. And sure, these things won't be gone, but they'll fade. This pain will fade."

"I know you don't see it now, but all of this is just a little part of your life. A life that you deserve to keep on living." Oh God. I blinked multiple times, but it was too late. Hot tears started to make their way down my face; I hurriedly wiped them away, but I couldn't seem to stop. Forrest pressed his lips together and then said, "I don't know, but I mean, I think . . . You shouldn't die that way. I think you owe it to yourself to move on, you know? Keep going and see that happiness is out there somewhere."

"And you already made it this far. You should be proud for being strong for so long." I shut my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe. This is too much. This is too much. But Forrest didn't know that - or if he did, he didn't care. He kept talking, making sure I heard him. And I did. Every gentle word - laced with intensity - slammed into my ears. "And one day, you're going to look back and you're going to wonder why you ever wanted to leave."

"Okay . . . okay," I finally choked out before opening my eyes. But I couldn't make myself look at Forrest so I hung my head low. Sniffling, I roughly wiped my tears away, disgruntled by how weak I must have looked. From the distance, I noticed that Perry had stopped whistling; although he was rather nice, I hoped he wasn't witnessing this. Forrest was already enough - I didn't need anyone else to know that I had issues, or to think that I was oversensitive and frail, crying so much out of the blue.

"Okay?" Forrest echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "What are you thinking right now?"

"I . . ." I released a shaky breath before daring to bring my eyes up. I regretted it once I saw how pained he looked. "I'm thinking about how crazy this is." My head was spinning and it didn't feel like there was enough oxygen in the room. "You just - I don't even know you. I didn't even know your name until a few hours ago - wait, has it even been an hour? And okay, sure, we went to school together before, but we're still strangers. The things you're telling me now - you act like I'm so important. Like I truly matter to you. But we both know that if you didn't find me trying to kill myself, you wouldn't care about me." A fire rushed through my veins. My mouth refused to stop. "You just feel obligated. You're just saying all of this because you feel like you have to."

Forrest frowned. "That's not fair," he argued, his tone low, "You can't blame me. Of course I feel like I have to help you," I was about to interject, wanting to say that he was just proving my point, but then he said, "But do you really think I put in this effort just because I feel obligated? I'm actually offended. I didn't bring you here - to one of my favorite places, didn't order you pancakes, and didn't go on and on about how you shouldn't commit suicide just because I feel like I have to. Everything I'm doing? It's because I want to."

He exhaled roughly. "I wouldn't have bothered, believe me. Honestly, I could have just dropped you at a hospital or something. But I didn't because I want to make sure you realize that you do matter to someone. Yes, June, yes, you matter to me. You do." The way he said my name left my heart pounding rapidly. "So don't you dare assume that you know who is and who isn't important to me. And don't let yourself believe that you're one of the latter."

"Also, I want to apologize for the circumstances we were forced to meet in, but I'm not going to because it's not my fault. So don't be upset that I only care about you now. It doesn't even make sense for you to be because I literally had no idea about you until earlier. If I knew you were struggling before, I would have talked to you about it - just like what I'm doing now."

More tears charged down my skin, but these were for an entirely different reason. You're right, my mind sighed. Everything Forrest said was right. He was doing his best to be helpful, but I was just spitting out doubt to his face. I didn't exactly mean to be difficult, but . . . I had to be.

Deep down, I knew what he was doing was incredible - but devastatingly so. I could not allow him to pick up the fragments and attempt to stitch them together if he wasn't intending to stay around to make sure they didn't come undone. I needed to find a fault with something he said, a fault with him, but now that he defended himself with fairly good points, I couldn't find anything else to criticize.

A sharp sensation of dread settled in my chest. I knew - for sure - that the moment he left, the moment we walked out of here, it would hurt.

With a trembling hand, I wiped my cheek and then said, "You're making it hard."

"What?"

Strangled with sadness, I continued. "You're making it hard to get over this. When this is over, when we have to part ways, where does that leave me?"

He blinked and slowly answered. "Who ever said about this being over?" I frowned, trying to process his words. Sensing my confusion, he tossed me an enigmatic expression, like he knew something I didn't. "June," he paused, "I don't know about you, but sometimes, what you believe is the end . . . is really just the beginning."