Well, all I see is the little boy with the wild black hair from my memories. The boy with the guarded hazel eyes and bird-boned fingers and shaky, dimpled smile. The boy who I’d witness years later standing on the ledge of a 300-foot bridge, telling me he needs perspective sometimes. How he needed to know there’s a way out. The boy who’s spent years desperately chasing his own end—be it down the bottle, the needle, or the barrel of a gun. The boy who can’t love me, let alone—and more importantly—love himself...
