I was working in a radio station with my own program. At that time my most common topics were about mental health, pre-pandemic. I was younger, arrogant and stupid, too confident discussing what I think I know about life. While I was busy telling people about what not, one morning I received a message from mom, my 17 year old cousin, a young lady with bright future, an ate to two sisters and probably the only cousin from my dad's side I wouldn't mind talking and hanging out with, killed herself. I am the Ate, I was her ate. I was supposed to protect her. Right under my nose, she slipped to her death. Its been years now. I still hate myself. I still cry about it. I still think of what I could have done. Its easy to say not to blame myself, that I wasn't part of the cause but maybe if I could have sent her a message, a simple "How are you?", maybe I could've helped but I didn't. I was busy pretending I know stuff, of helping, when the one that needed more help was left unattended. A while ago, I was walking on my way back to my place I saw a police officer with a teenage girl in the bridge, she was crying. I didn't want to be chismosa, maybe they were talking about something else, maybe the police officer caught her in time before god knows what she was about to do. It reminded me of her, if someone could have been there to tell her not to do it. That she was love, that she matter, that there's so much more about life she will experience. More heartaches, more failure, more mess but more laughter, more love, more dreams as well. But there was no one. So I'm sitting in the living room, in the dark and about to lit my second stick of cigarette and wait until I can stop sobbing about it.