Content warning: This article contains mentions of death, suicide and mental illness.

I don’t remember the last time I cried. And I don’t mean that in an upholding-toxic-masculinity kind of way, but in more of a if-I-fall-apart-now-I-don’t-know-how-I-will-ever-put-myself-back-together kind of way. Well, that’s a lie — I remember exactly the last time I cried — Feb. 2, 2022. I know the exact time and date because it’s on my student health portal, appearing hours after I called the 24-hour suicide hotline.

As someone who’s had a shitty upbringing, I consider myself a very understanding person. Someone who is kind and patient — because life happens. So when it came to dating, naturally, I tried to apply the same mindset — but I’m not perfect.

I had an on-and-off “situationship” (basically, a modern day relationship) going on for a little over four months. We each had our own pressing issues that we wanted to address before putting a label on it. And as much as I wanted to wake up next to him every morning (I think we already covered the part where I’m delusional), I knew that trying to make him “love” me would only push him further away. 

So I told him wholeheartedly, “Take as much time as you need. We have all the time in the world, and I’ll still be here.”

EERNGH (my poor attempt at an onomatopoetic buzzer sound)! Wrong.

After spending all of winter break fucking around and finding out, we promised to make an honest attempt at this so-called “dating.” A second “first date.” A date that kept getting pushed back further and further as the omicron variant of the coronavirus had just dropped. And when I finally returned to Los Angeles in late January, the first thing I did when I got off the plane was text him “i just landed.”

No response.

As heartbreaking as it was, life goes on. Since we were always honest and valued communication, it felt odd that he just disappeared from my life. But I figured he just needed his time and space, so I gave it to him.

In the meantime, my first week back in person that spring was going to be a good one. Because I needed one good semester. Because for anyone who knows me, I don’t get to have good semesters — my life goes to shit whenever I think I have it together. Unfortunately, I thought I had it together. That’s where I went wrong.

You know how in relationships, you want to bring the best out in each other? I wanted to be the best version of myself, not just for him but for me too. Because with his help, I began to learn how to be loved again. So I got out of my comfort zone, accidentally auditioning for a dance group (having never danced before in my life), and miraculously, after an exhausting week, I still had it together.

Do you ever get so excited about something that you want to share it with the person you love? I did. So I shared it with him.

No response.

After a week of waiting, I decided enough was enough, and I wanted answers. But there are some questions you don’t want the answer to. I found out that he was killed a week earlier, the same day I landed in L.A., the same time I texted him that I had landed. Car accident. 

Days later, I found myself walking down Jefferson Boulevard at three or four in the morning. Because what can’t a good walk fix? Unable to throw myself into incoming traffic, I sat in the elevator lobby crying till my eyes went dry and tears ran no more, trying to make sense of a world that just didn’t seem to make sense.

Suicide isn’t really a choice when it feels like it’s the only choice you have at the time. Not wanting to die, I called the 24-hour suicide hotline, hoping they could provide the answers I so desperately sought. 

And even though I couldn’t find a reason to live for myself, I found it for others. I decided to live for others because I wanted to see what great things my friends would amount to. Because I wanted to grow old with my dumb orange cat. And because my parents shouldn’t have to bury a son.

I’d be lying if I said I knew all the answers. I’d be lying if I said I knew anything at all. The more I think I know about the world, the less it seems to make sense. And as much as it doesn’t make sense, I’m still here — somehow. So given enough time, maybe I’ll find a reason to live, a reason of my own — somehow.

To be continued.

If you are in need of support or you or someone you know is in crisis, help is available:

Contact the 24/7 phone line (213) 740-9355 for professional assistance from USC Counseling & Mental Health Services. If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988.

Man Truong is a senior writing about his reflections on life. He makes sense of a world full of different beliefs and philosophies in his column, “Lessons Learned,” which runs every other Monday.