He caught my eyes.

No, it’s not because of his look or his height.

It’s just that, the look that he had on his eyes when he’s alone.

Even though everyone is with him; talking with him.

He seems like he’s struggling, struggling with himself.

He worked hard, harder than his body will ever allow him.

Too hard that he’s ready to collapse.            

 It’s my responsibility to take good care of him.

To feed him, to make sure he get enough sleep.

But it’s hard, too hard to see him doing this to himself.

I thought I helped him enough.

That was until I see him cutting himself.

I guess, I thought wrong.

I guess he was worse, he is worse than I thought.

Is it possible for me to help him?

 Will anyone be able to help him?

 

But it’s too late.

It’s too late for anything.

I didn’t help him enough.

I thought someone else will be able to help him.

I thought I can just let go.

I can just tell everyone what’s wrong with him

And everyone will help him.

I thought everyone will be enough for him.

I didn’t realize all he needed was me.

I didn’t realize letting him go will be the end.

I didn’t realize until it’s too late.

Until I found him lying on the floor in the bathroom with a knife, a knife covered with blood on his hand

And his hand was covered with blood, his blood.

I tried, I called the ambulance.

But it was too late.

Everything is too late already.

 

There on the table; there’s a book, a notebook.

He wrote a letter for me.

And in that letter he said,

 

I love you, I’m sorry.