It was on the news again.
A man known for laughter.
The kind that fills rooms.
The kind everyone calls “life of the party.”
He ended his life.
Another headline.
A famous influencer.
Thousands of followers.
Perfect photos.
Captions stitched with optimism.
She ended her life.
Another scroll.
A mother.
Sunlit family portraits.
Children in matching colors.
Smiles practiced and patient.
She ended her life.
And her children’s.
Different stories.
Different lives.
Different worlds.
One quiet pattern.
They all looked well.
More than well.
Capable.
Reliable.
Put together.
No one sensed the fracture.
At least, that is what everyone said.
Then another detail surfaced.
Their final words.
Not poetic.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet sentences.
“I’m tired.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
And something else.
Before the note.
Before the decision.
They tried to call someone.
A missed call.
Two missed calls.
A message left on read.
A voicemail unheard.
We will never know
what would have happened
if someone answered.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
That is the part that stays with me.
Not the headlines.
Not the speculation.
The silence.
We think distress looks obvious.
Tears in public.
Voices breaking.
Hands shaking.
Sometimes it looks like:
Jokes.
Overworking.
Overachieving.
Posting as usual.
Smiling in photos.
Sometimes the loudest cry for help
is wrapped in discipline.
And here is the uncomfortable truth.
We are not therapists.
We are not psychiatrists.
We are simply human.
Friends.
Colleagues.
Siblings.
Parents.
Often, we are the first door.
The first name.
The first number dialed
before someone decides no one is coming.
before someone decides no one is coming.
We cannot diagnose.
But we can notice.
When “I’m tired”
comes too often.
When “I’m fine”
sounds rehearsed.
When laughter feels forced.
When laughter loses warmth.
We can ask once more,
“Are you really okay?”
And wait
without rushing the answer.
We cannot save everyone.
But we can choose to be present.
We can be first aiders.
Not the cure.
Not the solution.
But the bridge.
The redirect.
The voice that says,
“You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Because sometimes,
the distance between a headline
and another tomorrow
is a single person who answered.
We may not be medical experts.
But we can learn the signs.
We can listen without judgment.
We can point toward help.
Maybe that is where it begins.
Pick up the call.
Ask again.
Stay a little longer.