Chapter 2The 28th Floor Drop: Notes on a Crematorium

Calls and texts went unanswered, lost in a sea of silence. I talked to his subordinates, but they were a brick wall, smooth and impenetrable.

I even went to his office. The receptionist looked at me with an awkward, sympathetic expression, blocking my path.

"Mr. Hayes isn't in," she said.

I really wanted to force my way in. But I didn't want to make a scene. I had some dignity left. So, I forced a smile, pretending to be unbothered.

"When he gets back, just let him know I stopped by."

She relaxed visibly, looking relieved, though she couldn't hide the pity in her eyes. "Of course, Mrs. Hayes. Will do."

I pretended not to see his silhouette behind the glass wall of his corner office.

That night, I went home and drank a bottle of bourbon. I sipped it slowly, sitting on the balcony, watching the sunset bleed orange across the skyline. My mind drifted back to college.

We were lab partners junior year. My grades were good, but I was failing statistics. Our advisor suggested he tutor me.

I don't remember much about junior year, except for that humid summer. The slow whir of the ceiling fans in the library. The smelling of old books. And Julian’s fingers, constantly spinning a black pen.

I remember late-night study sessions, him leaning in slightly, his warm breath fanning my cheek. His hand, with its defined knuckles, pressed down on the textbook. His voice was low, creating a tender illusion.

"Which problem are you stuck on now?"

It was an innocent, naive fluttering of the heart, drowned out by months of studying for exams.

Actually, Julian and I started dating senior year.

Getting into the same law school gave us a sense of camaraderie. He took care of me. During orientation week, I joined the Student Bar Association. The chair of the social committee was always being inappropriate with me, touching me, getting in my space.

One night, after a bar crawl, I wanted to go back to my dorm. He insisted on walking me. In a dark alleyway off campus, he suddenly pinned me against a brick wall, pinning my shoulders with his hands. He was slurring, rambling about how I had to be his girlfriend, trying to force a kiss on me.

I panicked, screaming for help.

The next second, he was ripped off me. Julian was there, swinging his gym bag. He beat the guy up badly. He didn't seem to care if he killed him. Every punch was vicious.

I tried to pull him off, screaming his name, but it was useless. Finally, standing behind him, frantic and not knowing what else to do, I yelled, "Julian, stop! I'm going to cry!"

His eyes were red, but he stopped. He turned to look at me, his handsome face tense with lingering rage. The moment he saw me, his expression softened instantly.

"Don't cry," he cooed.

He stood up, walked over, and clumsily used the jacket from his bag to wipe the tears from my face. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. He looked at me, looking a little frustrated with himself.

"I'm sorry. I just... I've had a crush on you for so long, and I never dared to touch you. Now this total asshole tries to force himself on you... Did I scare you? I'm sorry."

He looked down at me, his gaze earnest, his expression tender.

"I didn't want to scare you. I wanted to wait until the time was right. Sarah, I like you. Do you like me?"

The memories were so vivid, like they happened yesterday. The young man who had nervously asked me that question had turned into a stranger.

Now, he only said things like: "Are you done annoying me? Can you just not, for five minutes?" "Stop calling me." "I'm not at the office, stop looking for me." "Please, let's just end this cleanly. Let me go, okay?"

Tears streamed down my face. I finished the bottle of bourbon.

This was my second suicide attempt.