There's a strange sensation that goes along with knowing people who commit suicide. When they're gone, you're left with a general uneasiness about how to deal. When someone's killed in a car accident, for example, the first thing you feel is that the situation isn't fair. You wonder why God Almighty had to take them now. Why'd they get plucked from the earth sometimes in the prime of their life. With accidental death, you can blame it on luck, or chance. With murder, easy, you can blame it on the killer. You can vow to hunt them down and bring them to justice. But suicide, well, suicide isn't that easy. As a friend you're consumed with questions. Why? Why didn't he just call me? Doesn't he realize that life is longer than your teenage years? Could i have done something different? Could I have just called him last week and invited him out to dinner? Would that have made the difference? It's like a sort of survivors' guilt. Are you more sad because of the loss, or are you sad because you could have done something. It'd be so much easier if we could just ask.

"Jordan, would it have made a difference if i'd called you last week?"
"Dr. Jurica, i'm sorry i hadn't stopped by your office yet this semester, would that have made a difference?"
"Jasmine, i'm sorry i chose being to class on time rather than talking with you, would that have made the difference?"

"Would you have wanted to live?"

We'll never know. We don't know how to feel, who to blame, or what to say. We're the survivors, but what was really lost? They chose to die.