IN THIS LIFE, STILL YOU

The news of Elise's jump reached me while I was working late at the office. At 10:30 PM, the entire building was as silent as an ancient tree shrouded in darkness, save for the small circle of light cast by the lamp above my desk. Aiden called, his voice trembling so much that for a brief moment, I wondered if the city's power grid had failed, causing his words to stutter: "Ethan Storm... Elise... jumped." That small circle of light remained, but I was already speeding through the city, eyes fixed ahead, heading straight to the city's top hospital. Life is priceless—no one understands that better than I do. Yet, I still ran two red lights on empty intersections. Upon arriving at the hospital, Elise was still in critical condition. Aiden told me to sit, but my body was frozen, numb to the point where my mind couldn't command my limbs. I heard Aiden's words, but my fingers wouldn't move. "Sixth floor... no one knows how she got up there. They say something broke her fall... She was unconscious when they brought her in..." I don't remember how long I stood outside the ICU that night. I can't recall the color of the sign under the light or how it changed. I don't even remember what Elise looked like when they brought her out. No, I didn't see her face; her entire head was bandaged. I only remember watching the sun rise and set countless times by her bedside. Those memories are hazy, almost empty. Sometimes, I wondered if someone had turned off the light in my office. But then I'd look at Elise and think, damn it, who cares? I have money; I could turn off the sun if I wanted. But no one, not even the Grim Reaper, has the right to remove Elise's oxygen mask. In the end, it wasn't the Grim Reaper who removed it—it was Elise herself. Left me speechless. Elise didn't want to live; this wasn't the first time. She had tried pills, cutting her wrists, even attempting to strangle herself with a doorknob. If I had installed some cameras, I might have caught her in the act. This time, she was clever—she jumped from the rooftop. Damn it, who installs cameras in the sky? Damn it all. One day, I'll ask an aircraft carrier if someone can bring me one. I didn't use it before, but now that she's gone, I could use it anytime. Forget it. If I had that kind of power, would Elise have ended up like this? Speaking of which, there was one night Elise woke up. But now, I'm not sure if I dreamed it or if she truly regained consciousness. I remember her eyelashes fluttering. Elise had beautiful eyelashes—thick and long. Her eyes were stunning, like a baby's. When she was shy, she'd lower her gaze, her lashes hiding her eyes. I couldn't see her expression, so I'd lean in to look, and she'd shy away. Only when her ears turned red did I realize she was embarrassed. I was always late when it came to Elise. Late in realizing she'd loved me silently for years. Late in noticing she was ill. Late in seeing she was taking medication. Late in understanding how severe her condition was. Late in realizing she'd wanted to die for a long time. People have many names for her illness.Voilà AI Some call it a rich person's disease, others say it's an irrational irritability, some label it an artistic ailment—meaning most artists suffer from it. Yes, that's it. The scientific term is depression. It's not that Elise was seeking attention; I must clarify that. This illness is indeed common, but Elise wasn't the type to follow trends. She could wear the same white T-shirt for three years—she didn't care about fashion. She just happened to have it, without knowing why. One day, she sat on the sofa at home, waiting for me, saw a fruit knife on the table, and suddenly wanted to use it on herself. She told me this after I caught her third suicide attempt. Things kept spiraling. What happened the night Elise woke up? I know. That brief moment is the clearest in my otherwise blurry and long memory. I could even count the times her oxygen mask released vapor. So I know that moment wasn't a dream. When she opened her eyes, she looked confused, her lashes fluttering before fully opening. She saw me watching her. She didn't seem surprised, meeting my gaze with the same look she'd given me countless times before—a faint, calm smile. When I whispered nonsense into her ear, she smiled like that. When I hid a bouquet behind my back to surprise her, she smiled like that. When I secretly tattooed her name on my arm, she smiled like that. When I discovered she was secretly taking pills, she smiled like that. In our final goodbye, she still smiled like that. Her smile was like this: lashes fluttering, eyes curving, lips slightly upturned beneath the bandages, eyes sparkling with life. A smile that seemed to say: Come on, Ethan Storm, don't be mad. For the last time, don't give me that sour face. She smiled; I looked up at the ceiling. But tears still fell, dripping onto the floor. The doctor said her internal organs were damaged beyond repair. She only had a few days left. I leaned in; Elise's smile grew more endearing. She smiled for a while, and my face softened. I saw her mouth a few words. Elise couldn't speak aloud, and even if she could, I wouldn't have heard. But I understood her lip movements. I don't remember when I learned to read lips—maybe after her second suicide attempt. One day, I randomly searched for online courses. Back then, I didn't know why I wanted to learn. Looking back, perhaps some nerve in my body loved Elise more than my brain realized, guiding me to take that action. That nerve, maybe Elise had silently implanted it in me years ago, knowing this day would come before I did. She said: Ethan Storm, go home. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Like she wanted me to take her home. But no—only I could understand her real meaning. She wasn’t asking me to take her. She was telling me to go… alone. I looked at her. She smiled again—bashfully, sweetly. Smiling, even with her head smashed like that? That was the last time I ever scolded her. That night was also the first time I went home since the incident. I sat on the living room floor, doing nothing. Outside the window was the gardenia she’d planted last month. Almost six months now. It was withering. As dawn crept in, I dozed off. Funny, isn’t it? I stayed up every night guarding her before— But that night, I finally fell asleep. I dreamed of a knock on the door. A knock only Elise made. Three soft knocks. Pause. Three more. I jolted awake. The living room light was still on. I stared at the door. No knock. Turning back, I saw a gardenia bloom fall onto the windowsill. I stared at it for a long time. Then said softly: “Elise, I won’t send you off.”