Seven years ago, on a half-day, my friends and I had planned to meet on the old science building's rooftop.
I arrived with snacks and drinks only to get a message that my friend had been kept after class.
As I turned to leave, I saw a boy in uniform standing at the rooftop's edge as if about to jump.

The rooftop railings were decrepit and the drop was ten stories.
I panicked and tried to think of a way to stop him.
He noticed my approach and, contrary to my fear, he didn't leap but scowled and wanted me to go away.
I pretended I didn't know anything and used the pretext of offering a drink to get close.
He warned me that sitting on the edge was dangerous, which made me all the more determined to help.
I sat and stayed with him, coaxing him with snacks.

He'd told me his family story — a father who'd cheated, a mother who'd been driven to suicide — and he'd been left crushed by blame.
He fainted from a sudden stomach condition and I rushed him to hospital.
Guilty, I visited him there and left contact info.
Later he was discharged earlier than I expected and then disappeared from school.

We lost touch as life moved on.
I thought I'd saved him, though the situation had not gone exactly as planned.
I visited him later and learned he'd changed his surname after moving abroad with his mother and then returned.
He told me he'd recognized me instantly — and that he had always watched over me since those days.
He had, in fact, returned once just to look for me, but I didn't notice.
I joked that he should have waved the drink bottle as a signal.
He said with some restraint, "I held the bottle, but you were busy with friends and didn't notice."
I felt embarrassed and changed the subject to avoid more awkwardness.
He murmured, "Don't leave me," and I promised I wouldn't.
It was clear he was starved for affection, probably never given the love he needed at home.
Maybe his forceful way of loving me now was learned on his own.
After a while, he said again, quietly, "Don't leave me." I agreed solemnly.