I pulled out my phone and typed “suicide” into the search bar. 1-800-273-TALK popped onto my screen with a “call” button in bold blue letters. I stared at it, shaking. I had no idea what to expect. Anxiety filled in the gaps: What would they say? What would I say? Could they track my location? I looked over the rail one more time. I hit “call.”

Crackly elevator music was the first thing I heard. The suicide hotline put me on hold.

I waited 15 minutes, wondering if there’d be an answer. Then I hung up. I’d received the only response I hadn’t anticipated: none.

I sat on the balcony’s warm cement and sobbed. For the first time in months, I heard my breath. I’d forgotten I could sit down just to sit. Slowly, I turned myself around like a parent averting a child from danger. At that moment, I felt like an infant — unsure of anything except for an instinctual need to cry. I hadn’t let myself feel for too long. I’d told myself feelings were a distraction.