The day after I killed myself, I woke up.
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up, to have a long breakfast in bed. I made my favorite juice, fried my eggs, and made a strong cup of black coffee. I listened to my favorite music, and danced as if no one is watching.
The day after I killed myself, I fell in love.
The day after my suicide, I understood how much I love my parents, when I watched them take care of my belongings, sort out my collections, frame my pictures. I understood how much I love my brother, when I saw him close himself in my room and talk to me, telling me all the things he never said.
The day after my suicide, I took my dog for a walk.
I watched her run, chasing birds, playing with balls, wagging her tail at every stranger who made eye- contact and smiled to her. I watched her genuine joy as we got to the park, and she found all of her friends -or just made new ones- to play with.
The day after my suicide, I went to the morgue, and saw my body being examined by the doctors. I saw my body, and tried to talk to it, to say: please go back in time, and think twice about this.