A Snapshot.

They hadn't talked in a year, but she figured his number was still the same. She pondered the cell phone screen for a few moments until it turned off from idling. She carried her phone in her hand as she walked to a far away field. Then she sat down and called him.

He answered.

'Probably forgot this is my number,' she thought to herself. "Hello?" his now-unfamiliar voice echoed into the phone. "This is because of you," she said.

A gunshot went off through the cellphone static.

In the deafening silence that followed, she said nothing. She had shot the gun into the air - a prop gun from a theatre, shooting a blank. But he didn't know that. She listened.

He said nothing.

And nothing was all she needed to hear. She left the gun in the field where she had been sitting and walked home. She swallowed a bottle of pills and died in her sleep after leaving a note telling her family that she loved them and was very sorry but she had to live for herself, and she didn't want to anymore.

He didn't come to the memorial service. He couldn't face her family. He never knew there was a moment when he could have saved her, if he would have just said something.