At ten on a school night, I am trying to coax my mind into sleep. Six in the morning hits hard, I remind myself. When I’m nearly asleep, the familiar tone of my cell when I recieve a text snaps me awake. It’s from Emma, and it contains two words:

Call Me.

And I did. Answering is the same “Hey!” I usually get from her, but I noticed something different in her voice, followed by the awakening of my empathic powers with a rush of pain, enough to make my eyes water.

“Em, is something wrong?” I ask, met with a long pause, punctuated by tears.

“Blake broke up with me!” she choked through sobs.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, in an unsuccessful attempt at consoling her.

“Can you come over? I’m afraid I might do something… stupid.” I felt a suicidal impulse and ran out the door into the pouring rain. I ran nearly two miles to reach my friend. I burst through her door, panting, soaked to the bone. But Emma was alive, sobbing in an old recliner.

“Em…” I started, placing a hand on her shoulder.