*TRIGGER WARNING*

Turns out you and Jimin had more in common than you thought. You were the same age - 16 - and he was in hospital for the same reason as you; recovering from a suicide attempt. You had taken the seat next to his bed and the two of you spent the evening talking about anything and everything.

You found out that Jimin also suffered from depression and bulimia.

You began thinking how tragic it was that the two of you, two people so similar, managed to first meet in these circumstances. You two were completely entranced in each other’s words; nothing else mattered. And then he asked you the question you had dreaded.

"So, y/n. Tell me your story."

My story?

The very words made you tremble. You see, your story was one you wanted to forget, but it was one you couldn't forget for it was constantly in your face. And where do you even start? You shuffled in your seat and felt his fingers tighten around yours.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want. But you should know I won't judge you." You looked up at him and saw the softness in his bloodshot eyes.

You let out a breath.

"No. I will tell you. But you have to tell me yours after."

The corners of his mouth rose and he nodded, his floppy, black hair moving with his head. The truth: he would be the first person you would tell your full story to. But you trusted him. You cleared your throat.

"Okay so um I've always been really insecure about myself, about everything; my body, my talents, my everything. And then when I get a positive comment or compliment, I'll most likely not believe it. Because it's not the truth. When I get a negative one, and I get a lot believe me, it will stay with me for the rest of my life. Where did all this depression start?"

You paused, thinking of how to phrase this next part. Jimin squeezed your hand for encouragement. Your voice came out a whisper.  

"I was eleven. It was the Easter holidays and we went round my uncles’ house. I spilt juice on myself out of excitement and he took me upstairs to get me changed. That's when he started to touch me. He told me it was normal, but that it was to be 'our little secret'."

You shuffled and continued your story.

"It made me feel so dirty. The first time he me, he used drugs, but then after that he just started doing it all willy nilly – sorry bad word choice. But it was horrible. I tried telling my parents but dad was busy drinking and mum was working. They didn't believe me, so I suffered, alone, in silence.

It was only when my mum walked in on us that she realised I was telling the truth. She stopped it and called the police. But that went on for eight months before it stopped. I haven't seen him in five years. The thing was, he told me I was beautiful. I was stupid enough to believe it. I haven't trusted anyone fully since then.

I became anti-social. I stayed in my room. I stopped eating. I was depressed.

Then I got a Facebook message. It's true what they say: twelve year olds should not have Facebook. A guy started messaging me. At first he was nice; calling me pretty. Then I realised all he wanted was pictures. He was just as bad as my uncle. Then he changed his tone. He started sending me messages about how ugly I was, how worthless I was, how I should just kill myself. And again, I believed him. I felt ugly.

One day it got too much. What if he was right? Was I worthless? I needed a way to escape.

I grabbed some scissors and made five deep cuts on my wrist. It happened so fast and I didn't feel pain until afterwards. It stung; my wrists would not stop bleeding. And then it hit me that I had just cut my own wrist. I could feel my heart thudding and I felt dizzy and faint. I didn't know what to do.”

You realised you had been talking for a while now, and you must’ve been boring Jimin now.

“Y/n carry on. Tell me what happened after… how did you get to this point?”

You looked up at him in surprise again. He really genuinely did want to know; he did actually care about you. It was funny how you felt closer to this boy you had met not so long ago than to your own parents who had known you all your life. He made you feel brave enough to tell him your story with only a few words. It was simple but it was enough. You took another deep breath and let the rest of your story pour out.

“The thing was… I liked it. I liked the rush of adrenaline it gave me. I knew it was bad but I couldn’t stop. Cutting… it gave me a different kind of pain; it was a welcome distraction from my life. And then it became part of my life. I realised I couldn’t stop. I’ve cut for the past 4 years and, well, my life has been rocky. The longest I’ve been without cutting is a month.

I’m depressed.

My first suicide attempt was when I was 15. It failed, obviously, but it shook me a bit. I went into rehab and saw a therapist. It helped a bit. But nobody really understood. I was still alone. To make matters worse, kids at school found out about my therapist so they thought I was crazy or something and they bullied me. It was not nice.”

You heard the bitterness in your voice as you described the kids at school. The term ‘bullying’ was much nicer than what they actually did to you. You shuddered, not wanting to think about it.

“And then I just went over my limit. I took the pills and then the next thing I know is that I’m lying in hospital, still a waste of space, still alive but barely breathing. It .”

And that was it. That was your story in all its glory.

“Yeah, it really does .” Jimin groaned slightly as he shifted into a sitting position. “Before I tell you my story… can I ask you a question?”

A question?

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met?”