You Will Be Found

So, I haven't been too active lately, writing-wise. This is due to many things - uni, exams, the effect of said uni and exams on my mental health. Believe it or not, this fic isn't for projection purposes - well, not entirely. It's actually inspired by another story in another fandom. That fic is on FF.net and it's called "Suicide Line" by Nydimen in the fandom for the anime "Yuri!!! on Ice", but the original is in Spanish and I had to use Google translate to understand it. But it inspired me to write this. You can view this as a companion piece to my old story "And I Feel Them Drown My Name", but they're really only connected theme-wise. The title is taken from the song of the same name from the musical "Dear Evan Hansen."

If that sounds familiar to you, yes, I am basically doing what handoverthe_tea has been doing for most of their stories. I have recently started listening to the DEH soundtrack as I've been getting back into musicals. Hell, if you know the musical, this can be like a hunt for DEH Easter Eggs!

Credit goes to @RedReality for designing the cover!

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, sexual assault and disordered eating.

The median lethal dose for caffeine in humans is estimated to be 150-200 milligrams per kilogram of body mass.

That equated to about 75-100 cups of coffee for a 70kg adult.

But at this point, 23-year-old Sylvester Cole felt like he could consume all the coffee beans in the world and not feel a thing.

He didn't mind the night shifts. Or at least, he tried not to mind them. They were a godsend for the people who needed them most. But Sylvester was only a person himself. This week had been relatively quiet, with fewer calls than the previous week.

Of course, it was hard to tell if that was a good or bad thing when working at a suicide hotline.

Sylvester Cole lived a comfortable life. He had a nice flat, a loving mother, a sweet fiancée and a job that he found fulfilment in. It was one thing to feel warm and fuzzy when you do or say something nice to someone else, it was another to be the shoulder that a stranger cries on, the bed that they lie on until they can find the strength to get up from it and move on.

And it was another thing entirely when the people who tried to reach out ended up slipping away no matter how hard Sylvester tried to cling on.

He sipped his espresso at the thought in a manner similar to how an alcoholic might take a swig in an effort to forget their own pain. He'd always been a sensitive soul, but he'd taken care not to take a job like this without the support system he currently had. His fiancée, Eva, whom he had been with since he was 19. His mother, Constance, as secure and stable as her name. His best friend Reese, who had found him by sheer chance when he was lost ... so, so lost ...

The phone rang, and Sylvester found himself again.

"Hello, thank you for finding the courage to reach out to us today. With whom do I have the pleasure?"

"... I can't go on," said the resigned voice on the other end.

"Why do you feel like that?" Sylvester asked calmly.

"I can't get out. There's only one way out."

"What's your name?" That, along with the greeting when he first picked up, was the only piece of dialogue Sylvester would say that could be considered "scripted." It was a way to distract a suicidal person from their thoughts and to make them more comfortable with pouring their heart out to a stranger. It was easier if they seemed less like a stranger.