It’s the same with you. It doesn’t matter how others have come to know about your suicide, doesn’t matter if I have told them myself, I can’t seem to find a moment alone with you. It’s the sensation of being in a crowd, angling to see a famous painting. This crowd consists of people you know but also of people you don’t know. I don’t know them either. But they’re out there. Every day, new people are being reminded of how they are connected to you, of when they might have been in the same room, of where they might have seen your name. They are searching in their in-boxes, assessing their
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