"What is love?"
She wrote it in red lipstick on the first page of a school notebook.
It wasn't a metaphor—just despair, scented with cheap makeup.
Ashley stared at the bathroom mirror like someone checking for signs of life. Her makeup, ruined by the heat, made her look like an actress leaving the stage after a play no one clapped for. She fixed her eyeshadow with careful strokes, as if her face were a mask that had to be restored before stepping back onto the stage others call "the world."
Her dark hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders, interrupted by a few violet-dyed strands. Her pale skin screamed of a soul gone missing. She stared at herself.
Didn't recognize what she saw.
Didn't love it.
And worst of all—didn't even hurt anymore.
A quiet sob—maybe her own—echoed in the empty bathroom.
She stepped into the hallway.
Walked fast, as if speeding up could outrun the breakdown.
She reached the classroom, dropped into her seat like an automaton.
Opened a notebook she didn't plan to use.
In her bag, a red journal peeked out like an open wound with no bandage.
Voices floated around like smoke. Harmless. Meaningless.
Until one got too close.
"Hey, Ashley, right?"
It was a guy—one of those who only speak when the teacher lets them.
She didn't answer.
Didn't even look at him.
Her body moved before her mind caught up:
She stood.
She fled.
As if words could cut her.
As if she had no bandages left.
At home, she dropped her bag silently, took care of her mother with the delicacy of someone tending to a shattered vase. When she heard the front door slam shut, she seized her chance—slipped out the back door.
She had a destination:
The bridge for those who want to disappear quietly.
The wind greeted her like a slap.
The sky was gray, same as always—same as her.
She climbed the railing with the steadiness of someone who's given up, and the clumsy hope of someone who maybe—just maybe—wants to be stopped.
"Is it okay if I visit you?"
She whispered the words as she scribbled in her red notebook, using lipstick again.
"I hate the men who are here…"
And just when she thought she'd written her last line,
a motorcycle growled in the distance.
She turned.
It was getting closer.
Apparently, fate wears a helmet.
"Hey, suicide girl!" the voice shouted—male, mocking, unbearable. Alive.
Ashley glared. Was this real? A creep? Another idiot?
"If you're gonna jump, do it already. Don't waste my time," the guy added, crossing his arms like he was waiting in line at the bank.
Ashley shot daggers with her eyes. She was shaking.
"You want me to do it?" she asked, not sure if she wanted an answer.
"I mean… yeah. But also no. Depends, really. Do you wanna end up in the news or in a Bad Bunny song?"
He sat next to her, swinging his legs like a kid on a playground swing. No fear. No sense.
"Do you know how many bones you can break from this height? All of them. Even the one in your heart—if you still have one."
Ashley blinked. Looked at him again.
There was something strange about him. Not classically handsome, but… magnetic.
Like one of those highway warning signs you can't ignore.
Loose ponytail. Worn clothes. Eyes that had forgotten how to cry.
And a funeral-worthy grin dressed as a joke.
"Are you stupid, or just rehearsing for something?" Ashley muttered.
"Both. But today I'm your lifeguard, so say thanks."
He leaned toward her—just as a strong gust of wind hit.
She slipped.
It happened in seconds.
A scream.
The void.
A hand catching hers.
A grotesque crack.
His laugh.
And his voice:
"Ahh… I think I broke my soul. Or my arm. Not sure which one I use more."
He pulled her up the best he could. She clung to him, too.
They collapsed on the asphalt like bags full of chaos.
He groaned.
She gasped.
And for a moment, the world was nothing but shared pain and staggered breaths.
"My job here is done," he said, standing with effort.
"You can try killing yourself tomorrow. Today's show is over."
He tried to get on his bike. Winced. Cursed.
His arm wouldn't let him.
Ashley watched him. Got up, walked over, snatched the keys from him with unexpected authority.
"Get on," she said.
"You know how to drive?"
She didn't answer.
She just started the engine.
And drove… like someone who had never truly lived until now.
The hospital welcomed them with cold lights and the smell of disinfectant.
Ashley had scrapes.
He was broken.
When they were asked what happened, the guy answered:
"My girlfriend and I fell off the bike. You know, the usual. Love, speed, asphalt."
Ashley stared at him in horror. "Girlfriend?"
"A whole month in a cast?" he groaned when the doctor told him.
"So unfair. I tried to save a life and now I'm emotionally and physically broken."
Later, as Ashley sat in silence, her uncle arrived.
The kind of man who doesn't ask—he commands.
Signed papers. Ignored stares. Dragged her out without a word.
Gustavo—that was the name of the motorcycle idiot—tried to say goodbye.
But the uncle's look was clear: Don't even try.
And Ashley…
She didn't even look back.
She just let herself be taken.
Like always.
The next day, on campus, Ashley walked with Dennis—her friend, her shield, her oxygen—and some guy named George, a clingy dude who confused confidence with touching.
"Haven't you heard of personal space?" Dennis snapped, brushing George's arm off Ashley's shoulder.
"It was a joke…" he muttered, bruised in his fragile masculinity.
That's when they heard the honk.
Ashley turned.
And the voice she had already started to dread came back:
"Hey! Look who it is—Suicide Girl!"