Emily,

It made me so sad when you told me that you cut your wrists. And it was made so much worse when you rolled your sleeves down and showed me both of them. "Sorry to change the subject, but I have to ask: what do you want to be when you grow up?" "Once I’m out of this place," you gesticulate around the hollow halls of the hospital. "Once I’m out of this place, I want to become a firefighter." "You… "I stop. "You want to save other people’s lives?" "Yeah." "Can you make me a promise, then?" "What’s that?" "Could you maybe first start by saving yourself?" "I’ll try." "Good to hear. That is so good to hear." "If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be heading back to my room now." I watch you pick up your sketchbook and walk away. "Emily," I whisper "the sad truth about life: the kindest people you meet are always the saddest." I slump back down against the wall, allowing myself a moment to feel a pressure that isn’t mental for a change. I continue to bounce my smiley face bouncy ball against the wall. Oh, the irony.