I wanted to write this in Japanese, but I don't have the ability. Perhaps one day I will, and I'll revisit this episode. I hope it helps you.

This story is set a few days ago, an early April Tuesday. That evening I was playing a game with some friends. There were five of us at the table, two I barely knew except their names, and the other two were the hosts, whom I was somewhat familiar with. I don't have strong connections to a lot of my friends. I'm bad at making small talk, and I often don't learn much about them. The game, and the evening, are of little importance, but one of the hosts said '...the moral of the story is, "jump".' I don't even remember the rest of the sentence, but that word jump hung in the air. I had made jokes about suicide before (you have to laugh or you'll cry, as they say), but I guess he just didn't think about what he was saying at the time, and maybe he didn't realise the implication of it, or perhaps he thought they were just jokes after all. I let out a bitter laugh, and no one said anything. Maybe no one else noticed.

I got home. I had been putting off reading my emails for some time, but I did finally look. That payment I mentioned a while ago had arrived, and as predicted I couldn't pay. I didn't know what to do. So I put on my shoes again, and stepped out into the night.

The day had been warm (20 degrees, 90% humidity), but it had rained in the evening and the night air was cool. I don't make a habit of checking the time, so this is a guess, but it was probably about 11pm. I walked without direction, but the way I usually go, past the bridge. I stood there at the bridge's railing for a while, staring out into the water. The tide was low, and the river's current was strong. Could this distance really kill you? The railing had a few padlocks attached to it, each representing a life taken by depression. Scrawled across the railing were some feeble words of encouragement: 'Live life like a river... focus on the future!' and the Samaritans phone number.

Do you have the Samaritans where you live? They're a free suicide helpline. There's an old parable, in the Bible, of the good Samaritan. As a man was walking through the desert, he is set upon by bandits, and left half dead in the road. His fellow countrymen pass him by, noblemen and priests ignore him, but eventually a Samaritan, a sworn enemy of his people, stops and helps him to the nearby rest site. The lesson is love thy neighbour, where neighbour means even those you have sworn to kill. These days, a Samaritan is someone who helps someone else, without needing to be thanked or acknowledged.

I stood there for maybe half an hour, the black waters churning beneath me. I couldn't stop my eyes from watering, so I let it happen, but I didn't cry. I couldn't work up the courage to call the Samaritans, nor to jump, so I gave up and walked away, into the night.

Suddenly, I heard something. A guitar? Someone was playing guitar in public, at 11pm. He wasn't particularly good, but his playing was pure and open-hearted. I couldn't help but smile. Near my house there's a museum, and outside the museum is a courtyard, really just a large concrete area, with some benches and a skate park around the back. A father and son were playing basketball, and this guy was playing guitar. I wiped the rainwater off a bench and sat down, and closed my eyes. I had tried meditation before, but it had never really worked. Five things you can see... I was looking for a reason, but I wasn't sure I would find one here. A reason to be alive.

Some time passed. Suddenly I was hit with a thought: this is the night that I die. I felt powerless to stop it. I cried, properly that time. I had never cried in public before, not really. I curled up, my shoulders hunched; I took my glasses off, and let myself sob into my hands. It felt good, like pressure had built and I had finally pulled the release valve.

The guitar playing had stopped. I heard footsteps approach.

'You waiting on them?' the guitarist said, indicating the basketball playing pair. He had white hair peeking out beneath a flat cap, a scraggly beard, and his glasses were so thick his eyes were visibly larger. His gait was a little wobbly, and I wondered if he was drunk, but his speech wasn't slurred.

'No,' I replied. I was shocked my voice was so steady. I was certain my cheeks shone in the light of the streetlights, but I didn't wipe them.

'Then you heard the guitar?'

'Yeah.'

'You know that storm last week?' he asked. I said that I did. There was a powerful storm the previous week. Not as powerful as last year's Èowyn, but it had taken down a few trees in the area. 'This is the only spot I found that was dry,' he continued.

The roof of the museum covered a small, raised area. 'It's like a stage,' I said.

'Here, take this,' he said, and he gave me a Babybel.

A Babybel! A small wheel of cheese, wrapped in wax, usually given to children in their school lunches. I hadn't seen one in maybe twenty years. I didn't even know they still existed.

As I was amazed at seeing a relic of the past, the guitarist had wandered back to his guitar. But before he did, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

'You play?' he asked.

'No,' I said.

'You should.' And he kept walking.

I thought, this guy has no idea what he's just done, but I knew immediately that was a lie, of course. He had saved my life. If he hadn't spoken to me, I really do think I would have died that night. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. For the second time that night, and in my life, I was overwhelmed and cried big, ugly tears on that bench. This time he didn't come over again, but he yelled across the courtyard, 'Name's Frank!'

'Amie,' I called back.

I regained my composure and listened to some more of his playing. I didn't know the song, and there was no real melody, just some chords, but it fit the mood of the night. Eventually, I stood up. I wanted to move. I walked past Frank, and I wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Thank you seemed so little in comparison to what he had just done. Instead, he just said 'Goodnight,' and I said 'Night' back, and I kept walking. After I passed out of his field of vision, I stood still and allowed myself to cry some more.

Currently, there's an epidemic of deaths by suicide in Scotland. There are a lot of adverts from the government saying something like 'All it takes is saying hello' or some such. I never believed that it was possible that such a small gesture could save a life. But I've felt its power first hand. I hope I never have to, but I want to be someone's Frank; someday I will.