"Have you ever been to Simon Sanchez Avenue?" Forrest asked, but before I could answer, he added, "It's where I live. Not too far away from Astumbo Supermarket, which – by the way – is where I work."

"Oh," I allowed this new information to settle in, "What do you do?"

"I'm just a cashier – yeah, for almost a year now, but I'm definitely not planning to work there forever."

I understood why – nobody would want to stay with a job like that, not if they could help it. "Are you planning to go to college?"

"Yeah," Forrest slightly shook his head, "But I'm not sure when or where. I'm having a bit of trouble with the price of tuition. It's pretty overwhelming, honestly, but, uh, yeah," he paused, "What about you? You going to college?"

"Uh, no," I revealed, "The expenses are too much. Besides, I haven't really cared about my future."

The words hung in the air. I didn't realize how negative I sounded until it was too late. Forrest twisted his head towards me, but only for a second. His frown made me regret what I said, but it was the truth. I never planned on going to college because I never planned on staying alive past this age. Waiting, I expected him to remark on it, to tell me something sickly inspirational, but instead, he said, "So, uh, you didn't answer my question . . . about Simon Sanchez Avenue."

"Oh," I swallowed, "no, I haven't been there, but I have heard about it."

Forrest nodded. "Where do you live, anyway?"

"On Benavente Lane – maybe three neighborhoods away from yours. But yeah, it's nothing special." I stared out of the window, feeling strangely composed. We zoomed by everything else and somehow, it felt like it was just the two of us. Me and him, a road leading to somewhere, and a band of thin yet sharp possibilities. For now, I refused to let any negativity contaminate my mind – instead, a blurry kind of serenity claimed me. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this way.

"Hey, speaking of home . . ." Forrest cleared his throat, "uh, is there anyone that may be losing their minds right now? Anyone you should call or something?"

Just like that, my sense of calm cracked. I blinked, a vivid realization washing over me. "No." The terse answer sliced through the air. I didn't care to elaborate.

"You live alone?" he asked, but I knew he didn't think so.

"No," I repeated, the word now coming out heavier.

"June . . ." I didn't look at him, but I couldn't ignore how dispirited he sounded, "did you – did you leave a note?"

I took a long time before replying. I knew what Forrest meant. He wasn't talking about a simple note, magnetized to the fridge. He was asking if I left behind a suicide letter.

I did.

"Nine," I eventually mumbled, pressing my lips together. And before Forrest could question why I said the number, I continued. "That's how many I've written. Over the years. I wrote the last one four days ago," my throat released a sigh, "They're on my bed."

Memories flickered in my mind. The first letter was created when I was thirteen. The next two came the next year. My most devastating one was when I was fifteen. Two more when I was sixteen. I didn't write any when I was seventeen – perhaps that was the golden age. At eighteen, I was close to not writing any, but I did – two more. And now nineteen, I wrote – what was meant to be the final one – on Friday. Three in the afternoon, I locked myself in the bathroom. I recalled my shaking hands, my tears wetting the paper, my screams – so loud but never heard. The words, I bled out until there was nothing left. I didn't finish until hours later. I spent the rest of the night, empty.

I gritted my teeth and pulled out of the flashbacks, making myself come back to the present. I soon noticed that Forrest was awfully quiet. His lack of response was what convinced me to glance at him. I was taken aback to see his clenched jaw and his grip on the steering wheel vice-like. White knuckles greeted me, cranking up the tension.

"Just to let you know," I murmured, my stomach churning, "today was the first time I, uh, actually made an attempt. I wrote the other eight letters, but could never go through with what I had in mind."

Forrest allowed what I said to sink in. "Who will be the one to find them – if they haven't already?" he asked slowly.

I exhaled deeply. "My grandfather."

His hands on the steering wheel loosened. He seemed to be dumbfounded, unsure if he heard me correctly. I could imagine what was dashing through his mind. What about your parents? Where are they? Great questions. Too bad I wouldn't – couldn't – answer them.

"But you don't have to worry about him," I decided to explain, "He stays in his room like seventy-percent of the day. We're not that close so he's not very concerned with what I do." I tried to sound as casual as I could manage, but inside, the words brought an ache. "I mean, I think I could be gone for three days straight before he noticed anything." I let out a small laugh, but there was absolutely nothing funny about it.

Forrest sighed softly. "Are you sure he's not too worried about you?"

Was I? The truth: I wasn't. Although it was highly unlikely, maybe my grandfather decided to check up on me and stumbled upon the letters. Maybe he called the police and they were all desperately searching for me. But maybe, probably, he was in his bed with a bottle of liquor. Maybe I wasn't the only one depressed, the only one questioning my existence.

I closed my eyes. "Can we please . . . not talk about this? Sorry, but I just –" I stopped, not able to go on.

I didn't hear Forrest say anything right away. But eventually, he proved he was respectful enough to obey my plea by murmuring, "All right." Many moments passed, but I didn't open my eyes. Forrest must have noticed because he said, "Go ahead and sleep. I'll wake you up when we get there."

He didn't need to tell me twice. I couldn't deny that I was completely exhausted – not only because of everything that happened today, but because I was up since three in the morning. My body begged to rest. I finally gave it permission.