"Why did you want to kill yourself?"
"It's a long story."
"I want to help you."
"You can't."
"Well I'm going to try anyway."
"Yea, I know you are. You'll help for a week or two and then when I start to feel close to you I'll tell you my secrets and you'll find out how bad I really am. Then you'll say how upset you are that I'm so depressed and you'll say you'll get me help. You'll make empty promises, you'll pretend like you care when inside you've given up on me. I'll learn that I can't tell you those things anymore, and you will stop asking about them, even though you know it's still happening. We'll grow distant and I'll hate myself for opening up to you. You won't realise that I'll try to kill myself again. We'll still talk, but there will always be that awkwardness. Because you gave up. Because everyone does in the end. Your closest friends become far away figures and you are left on your own to cope with these fucked up emotions and you have no idea how. Everyone gives up and I mean everyone. And that, more than anything, made me want to die."