The water rumbled as I held hands with a man I met only two days ago. The moon's light reflected off the black liquid below, but the smog of the city made it appear only as a blurred glint. "I suppose this is it." He looked at me while he spoke, and I nodded in response. The stubbled man turned his head toward the air in front of me. "It could have been anyone," he said. "Really, it didn't even have to be with anyone." A stray cat peeked from around the corner of a distant building. "But I'm thankful that you reached out." He lets out a breath. "I'm glad it was you." I stood silently for a moment, until I blinked and broke the dry seal of my eyes. I just wanted to ask him why, but I already knew that people want nothing more than to be heard when they speak. His neck swung to look back down at the water below, hand squeezing mine. "You remind me of my daughter before she fell down this canal. Hair short, with a mole around the same spot as yours. She used to wear a white sundress like yours, too. Ah, except it was smaller, of course." The man ran his finger across the railing, peeling the rust off, exposing the raw metal underneath. His attempts at chuckling were dry, the kind that sounded like expelled air. "She wore it everywhere—even if it got muddy, or if she knew she would come home all red, covered in mosquito bites, and—" The corners of his mouth pinched, like he was holding back more than just his words. "Is it strange?" he asked, looking forward at the night sky. The distance was smeared with the shadows of apartments and skyscrapers, dotted with lit windows in an unfixed design. His voice was thin. "What I said? ... Was it strange?" He said it to the air. I was silent as I leaned against the railing to allow the weak breeze to respond. The water continued to run amidst our silence. People never stop talking, even when they can't tell if someone's really listening. We resort to speaking just because we want to. We speak to animals, we speak to ourselves, and we also speak to faceless icons anywhere on the internet. Sometimes people listen, but most of the time they don't. Though, sometimes strangers know more about a dusty corner of our hearts that even those closest to us don't know about—that they simply got too used to. I tucked my hair behind my ear. I gave him a moment, then I opened my mouth and offered my own conclusion: "No," I said plainly. "I don't think so." But maybe I was biased. My eyes fell onto my digital watch, lazily watching every dot of the second. Before long, the man beside me sighed. His shoulders rose as he inhaled, then sunk with his exhale. It was so deep that I didn't even know if he was trying to expel his soul or if he failed to pull it back in. Faraway chatter fades, then he closed his eyes. "Well, I supposed it's time." His gaze was on his watch as well. From the corner of my eye I spotted another cat, a white one, skittering across the empty street, over to the other side. His face warmed back into a smile as he let go of my hand. "I'm happy you're not joining me," the man said, before he lowered to untie his shoes. "I always thought, 'Why couldn't it have been me?'" He removed them, placing them neatly aside. "I suppose this doesn't make up for it, but it almost feels like it does." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a child's hair tie. "I'm not one to tell you what to do, but..." He offered me the piece of cheap elastic. The band was black and stretched from use, and attached was a plastic sunflower charm with chipped paint. "Could you please stay alive as long as you can?" he said as I accepted the gift. I cupped it into my hand, warm again, and my voice finally wavered. "I'll try my best."