I wasn't going to jump.
I still have things to live for. (I think.)
But the train was taking longer than expected, my phone was dead, and I didn't want to put in the effort of reading an actual book; so I stood on the platform thinking of all the reasons I currently have to live, namely the challenges I currently face. (Considering the bigger existential challenges are still overwhelming and blackpilling, and often lead to the bad kind of hopelessness, not the hopeful kind.)
With nothing to distract me, and becoming bored of standing in place, I decided to use this freedom from my phone to be inquisitive, and walked towards the edge of the platform where the train arrives to be the first to see it pulling into the station. (I was/am NOT suicidal. I use my imagination to entertain the morbid thought of jumping in front of the train often, but never seriously.)
(Also, I'd never traversed to the far reaches of the platform before. It smelled like piss. Not surprising.)
My behavior was subtly erratic: I beelined toward the platform's edge, walking with slow, measured intention, past the guy wearing his headphones looking at his phone, the cute couple that were actually talking while waiting for the train, and the asian girl reading a book. I did not notice being followed.
As I reached the end of the platform the piss filled my nostrils and I heard a voice behind me yell, "Hey!"
I ignored it becasue the voice wasn't referring to me becasue I am invisible. Then I heard it again. "Hey man!"
I turned around and made eye contact with the source of the voice. A black man, slightly older than me, dressed like a young punk with a sleeveless black band shirt who asked earnestly, "Are you ok?"
My behavior had been noticed, and to diguise my embarassment I flippantly and confidently responded 'yes,' like all I wanted was to smell the piss at the end of platform. For the moment our eyes locked he affirmed my sanity with the same intuition that initially recognized my suspicious behavior, and walked away, himself unembarassed. His was a heroic act, there was nothing to be embarassed of.
If I had been suicidal, and not a bored weirdo, this man, this hero, would have saved my life, and I absolutely would have broken down in tears in his arms. (This switching between extreme fantasies of tragic morbidity and sensitive helplessness is a talent of imagination, and not an exercise in faking feelings. Actually, maybe its a little of both.)
I wanted this man to know that I did really appreciate his personal and heroic effort, his duty to his fellow man. But anything more than my succint response would have been gay. Between men, less was more; between strangers eye contact means everything.
When the train finally arrived, I observed him in the next car, through the window. We got out at the same station, but I didn't follow him.
