The final Call - by David Lilly-West

Suicide is the act of taking one’s own life. People often ask what could push someone to that edge, and the answer is heartbreakingly simple: my heart couldn’t take it anymore. Your brain keeps urging you forward, but your heart has reached its limit—raw, exhausted, bleeding quietly with every beat. You still show up for friends, laugh at the jokes, play video games, and try to make peace with a world that feels heavier each day. You’re holding on to whatever fragments of yourself remain, waiting for the call. You’ve always been the anchor friend—the one everyone runs to when their world turns dark. No one knew the storms raging inside you. You wanted help, truly, but being strong for them somehow patched up pieces of your own brokenness. Still, even the strongest anchors eventually crack under the weight. The pain and turmoil had been building for too long. The first call came unexpectedly. You answered halfway, but a louder voice pulled you back to reality. Then the questions flooded in: Why didn’t you say anything? The truth is, you did speak—but not always with words. Your reposts grew darker, your posts turned cryptic. You were the brightest smile in the room, yet a shadow of pain would swallow your soul for a split second, too quick for anyone to catch. You spoke in silence, but your words weren’t loud enough for the world to hear. Now everyone worries. They start showing up more, checking in constantly, refusing to let you be alone. Parents take you to church, praying the devil isn’t trying to cut short a bright destiny. But the second call is already approaching. This time you wait patiently, planning with precision and care, while inside the war rages on: HEART: I can’t do this anymore. BRAIN: Keep going. Think about Mummy. Think about them. Think about everyone who needs you. HEART: I have been thinking about them—that’s why I’m still here. But I bleed every single day. BRAIN: You can do this. HEART: I can’t. With the internal storm raging, you answer the second call. This time it’s careful. You see the light—bright, warm, reassuring. For a moment, the pain finally stops. But the light begins to fade. You try to hold on, yet it slips away. You wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by the sound of crying, your closest friends and family gathered around you, asking the same question over and over: Why? And you give the same answer, voice breaking: “My heart couldn’t take it anymore.” You cry with them—not just for their pain, but because you’re so tired of holding on, tired of the constant knife twisting in your chest, tired of the turmoil that never seems to end. You just want to let go. When the room finally empties and the lights grow dim, the final call comes. This time you answer it swiftly, without hesitation. The light returns, embracing you gently. You can stop fighting now, it whispers. But then it shows you what you left behind: the empty room, the shattered hearts, the silent voids where your presence once lived. You ask the light for answers, and it replies softly: The people around you are hurting more than you knew. Answering this call wasn’t selfish… but if you had turned even a fraction of that strength inward, toward yourself, you might have stayed. And just like that, the final call is answered. One person gave up that day, but many different people died a little too—carrying pieces of that loss for the rest of their lives.

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