There are girls who smile when they're happy.
And then there are girls who smile when they're broken.
She was the second kind.
I met her on a Tuesday, past 11 p.m., in a convenience store that smelled like burned fluorescent lights and cheap microwaved curry. I came in to buy cigarettes I'd never smoke — something about holding them calmed me. She stood behind the counter, wearing the uniform wrong: her collar loose, her hair messy, her name tag flipped the wrong way.
She didn't say hello.
Just looked at me like she was trying to see through my ribs.
Then she asked:
> "If you knew the world was ending tomorrow, would you sleep... or scream?"
I told her I'd probably sleep. I was used to things ending.
She laughed like it hurt.
Then handed me the cigarettes and whispered,
> "Same."
---
That was the first night.
The second night, she told me she had a place she wanted to show me.
A river just outside town. Where couples used to jump, back when newspapers still reported that kind of thing.
She didn't say the word suicide. She didn't have to.
She just asked if I ever felt tired of pretending everything was okay.
I did.
That's how it started.
Not with love.
Not even friendship.
Just two strangers, both pretending they weren't drowning, standing by a river that didn't forget.