twenty-four

“24” was a website where people went to find a last friend. It drew those who had decided to end their lives within the next twenty-four hours, but didn’t want to go alone. It was a place where despair sought solace in company; where the final hours were filled with conversation—unusual, yes, but still human. There was no judgment here, no attempt to talk anyone out of it—only quiet understanding and a readiness to share the last stretch of time. And then there were those who simply wanted to spend a day with someone—and for them, a person who had chosen death seemed the perfect companion: no plans for the future, no expectations to impose, their mere presence carrying its own strange value. Neil had never imagined he would end up in such a place. His life had seemed carved from stone—so much he had endured alongside his mother, so many trials they had survived. But nothing had prepared him for the hollow that opened inside him after she was gone. Now, sitting at a dusty bus stop in a foreign Colombia, he remembered the golden California beach where, not so long ago, he had buried her—his only anchor—and realized he longed for death. Not mere resignation, but release. Freedom from pain, from memory, from a life that now seemed nothing but a gray procession of empty days. He wanted to dissolve. To vanish. To find peace. Summoning the last scraps of strength, Neil made his way to the nearest internet café, a place where the virtual world felt more real than his own. The air smelled of cheap coffee and warm plastic. He signed up for 24, feeling an odd mixture of revulsion and inevitability. This, at least, was something he could control—how he would go. Josten had never been on such sites before, and he felt out of place among the garish, attention-grabbing profiles promising “one last unforgettable adventure.” He didn’t know what to click, how to start. But he didn’t have to wait long. Almost the moment he finished his profile—choosing the neutral “no preferences”—a message arrived. Joseph: You’ve got nothing listed for death preferences. That’s… interesting.

Abram: Because I don’t care. I just decided to die—end of story.

Joseph: Why?

Abram: My reasons. What about you? Your profile lists a time and place for death. You like heights?

Joseph: Not at all. But it’s more fun that way, isn’t it? Neil—“Abram” here—exhaled. This stranger didn’t press for explanations, didn’t prod, didn’t try to soothe. That was unusual. He was too direct. Too… real. Weird guy, this Joseph, Josten thought, running through possible scenarios. If he even is Joseph.

Abram: So… you’re suicidal?

Joseph: Bingo, Sherlock! Notice what site you’re on? Joseph: What city are you in?

Abram: Planning to come kill me?

Joseph: Of course. That’s exactly why I’m asking. No, seriously—I mean we could jump together, since you’ve got no preferences. Josten hesitated. Joseph didn’t seem like a bad person. At least, a bad person wouldn’t respect boundaries, wouldn’t offer such an oddly equal “deal.” He wasn’t judging, wasn’t trying to persuade—just suggesting they meet the end together. It was… intriguing.

Abram: Colombia. Crystal Internet Café. And you?

Joseph: Stay there. I’m coming. Joseph: Colombia. Eden Twilight Club. Neil’s heart skipped a beat. “Crystal” and “Eden Twilight” were miles apart. Part of him wanted to run—to escape this sudden, unsettling closeness. But another part felt a flutter of something almost pleasant. Anticipation—something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Neil Josten decided to stay. For the first time in his life, he chose waiting over running. Waiting—perhaps for his own death, but now, not alone. Through the café window, he watched the sun sink behind the horizon, tinting the Colombian streets in copper and gold. The day was dying, as he planned to. Inside him was no panic, no peace—just something in between. Waiting, laced with the faint taste of choice. Joseph was on his way. Who was he? Why had he agreed? The questions hung in the air, not frightening but strangely curious. About thirty minutes passed. Neil ordered a cheap coffee just to occupy himself and avoid being asked to leave. People came and went, laughing, exchanging brief words, and he kept watching the door. And then it opened. A young man stepped in—short, wearing a black jacket, with sharp, symmetrical features. His skin was pale, almost aristocratic; his light hair slightly disheveled. A worn messenger bag hung from his shoulder, a plastic cup in one hand. He moved with quiet confidence, yet in his amber-brown eyes, framed by long lashes, lay a deep, bone-deep exhaustion. “Abram?” he asked softly, scanning the room—but his gaze seemed to find Neil instantly. Neil nodded, feeling a chill run down his spine. Joseph sat beside him, setting down his coffee, glancing around as if to ensure no one could overhear. “You know, when you read profiles on 24, it feels like a game,” he said, his voice even but tinged with something unplaceable. “Like all these people are just avatars. But here you are. Alive. Real. And it all becomes… real.” “And now?” Neil asked quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t know.” Joseph shrugged. “But I thought—if death’s the last freedom we have, why not choose who to meet it with? Someone who knows what it’s like when there’s nothing left to hold on to.” They fell silent. The café filled with the clack of keyboards, the hum of fans, distant street noise. It was the longest silence Neil had ever shared—and the fullest. “You said you hate heights,” Neil broke in at last. “So why jump?” “Because I’m afraid of it,” Joseph said, meeting his eyes. “And that means… it’s the last real thing I can feel. Fear before death—it’s proof you’re still alive, that something still stirs in you. And you? Why’d you end up on that site, Abram?” Neil looked at his hands, at the scars hidden under his sleeves—though his mind remembered each one. He saw his mother’s fading face, her endless fight, the fight he kept waging in her stead until there was nothing left in him. “I lost the last thing holding me here. My mom.” His voice was flat, almost breaking. “She fought. I’m tired of fighting for her.” The words came out more easily than he’d expected. For the first time in a long while, he’d shared a piece of truth. Joseph nodded—no interruptions, no probing questions. That was his strength, Neil realized: the way he could simply be there. His presence was support enough. And in that moment, sitting next to this stranger who might also be standing at the edge, Neil felt something unfamiliar. Not hope—no. But anticipation. The sense that his last hours might not be as empty or as lonely as he’d feared. “Want to spend the evening together?” he asked. “No jumps. No decisions. Just… people.” Neil didn’t answer right away. He searched Joseph’s eyes and realized that, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone. “Yes. I do.” They left the café, disappearing into the oncoming night, walking without naming a destination. Each had twenty-four hours left. Maybe more. It all depended on what they chose tomorrow. And tomorrow—tomorrow, for the first time in a long while, seemed possible. Perhaps that was the point of their meeting—not to share an ending, but to maybe find a reason to keep going. Even if it was only for one day. One day not spent alone.