To the man on the bridge:
    

     I never did get to see you. But I saw your car, parked crookedly on the side of the road. Your car was gray, and old, and it sat lonesome beside the railing of the overpass.
    

     I wish I could’ve taken a look at you. Was your hair dark? Light? Were you already aged so that it was the same color as your vehicle? And how about your skin? Did it already show your experience, with wrinkles and scars acting as galaxies imprinted on your body? Or was it glowing, new, fresh, as if you’d barely had any experience at all?
  

     And if I had the chance, I would have spoken to you about everything. I would have listened. Millions of questions would’ve flown from my lips whenever I was with you. For instance, what were your hopes, dreams, aspirations? What time did you usually wake in the morning? And how long did it take you to prepare for the day ahead? What were your favorite pastimes, and why did you enjoy them so much? What fear lodged itself so greatly into your heart that it was difficult to breathe sometimes?
    

     If I could, I would’ve delved into the deepest parts of your soul. What thoughts kept you awake after three a.m.? And what feelings were so massive that caused teardrops to invisibly stain your bedsheets? What were your biggest struggles and how did you conquer them? What secret made your organs feel like stones whenever you thought of it?
    

     How nice it would have been to know you.

To the man on the bridge:
    

     Why did you have to jump?