Aida Zabidi
“I love him,” she said, in an almost matter of fact way. 

The words were so simply said, so earnest – and I wondered how much a girl of fourteen would really know about love. Perhaps it was her youth, and the cusp of emotions starting to bloom in adolescence, in an age where everything seemed so much more intense that the thought of losing him had once made her suicidal. 

“Do you still feel like dying?” I asked. 

“Not anymore. The moment he said he wanted to break up, I realized that there he wasn’t the person I expected. He’s just human, and even though I love him, perhaps it would be better if we were apart.” 

They were both battling depression, in their relationship had fluctuated between need and comfort in their own ebb and flow of their disease; neither one had reached out to their families in their darkness, and she had managed to climb out of it – my young friend, who unknown to us had once attempted suicide at the lowest point of her mood. 

“I don’t feel like that anymore. I’m much better now,” she said. 

“It sounds like he needs help as well, and he might not be in the best frame of mind to be in a relationship."

"I want to be there for him, but perhaps it is better if we weren't together. I don't know how he'll live without me there."

"Sometimes you need to be put into a situation to learn how to cope. You can always be in touch, but it will be different from being nearby each other all the time. In any case, you know we’re always here. In case you ever need to talk to anyone, you can always send me a text."
 
I wasn’t sure if she would ever reach out on her own, but I wanted her to know that there would always be someone to listen if she really needed to talk. 

It was the bare minimum I could do. 
 
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