Ria P.
Photography by Jerry Stamatelatos
It’s important to note that Ria’s letter discusses the topic of suicidal ideation. If you think reading about this will be distressing for you, we encourage you to pause, center yourself, and prepare any resources you may need. If you'd rather not read this letter, you can read a different story by returning to the NYU home page.
If you’re reading this, your reasons will come.
I couldn’t tell how long I had been standing there. My face was sticky with the salt of tears that had long since dried in the outside air, leaving my skin feeling tight and cold.
I used to spend days and nights standing on this balcony, studying every window, every person, every life it held. How uniquely precious each one felt. How enormous the simple fact of being alive once seemed.
In my pocket, my fingers found a coin. I pulled it out and began turning it over and over in my hand, the sharp, ridged edges catching against my palm as I absent-mindedly traced every detail of the carved metal before letting it slip through my fingers. I watched it disappear, almost like it was being swallowed up by the darkness.
I stepped a little farther on and just kept staring at the ground, at nothing. I was unsettled to find myself unafraid. I was almost calmer, alone in the dark with the wind biting at my cheeks. I’m not sure what made me turn around, but when I did, I saw my kitchen through the window, the countertop, and the plastic tub of cookies my friend baked me weeks ago. I thought about how she smiled when she gave them to me. I went inside without thinking, just following the thought. The cold gave way to warmth, and I ate half a cookie. Simply by habit alone, I brought the empty plate to the sink, letting the hot water slip over my frigid hands, leeching out the last bits of cold from the metal of the railing.
And that’s when another thought came to mind: you never return Tupperware empty.
Maybe I’d bake her something. What would it be? What would she like? My mind brought me something almost like a gift. A memory of somewhere else, an image of her face lighting up while we shared a pistachio sundae. Yes, it would be pistachio cookies. I smiled to myself, turning the memory over in my mind, letting it warm me. The container was still sticky with crumbs. I considered washing it right then, but the thought of my bed and the warmth it would bring came to me, and suddenly I felt exhausted.
I’ll just do it tomorrow, I think to myself.
And there it was. Tomorrow. Here in my hand, there was my tomorrow. And a day after that and a day after that. There would have to be. Because you never returned Tupperware empty.
If you’re reading this, your reasons will come. They may not look grand or important when they arrive, so look closely. They may come quietly, and when they do, let them in. Take them, hold them tight to you, and let them keep you warm while you wait for your next tomorrow.
Ria P., New York University
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