I'm the worst kind of person. The scum of the earth.

I'd never felt those feelings so strongly as I did when I watched one of my students step close to the ledge of a tall campus building. He'd been one of my favorite students. One of the brightest, most engaged, and most active in the class I taught. It was a joy to read his workshop pieces. My mind raced with all the moments I'd perhaps been too harsh, moments when I could have been softer. There were far too many of those moments.

"Come back over here, Tristan," I pleaded with him. "We can discuss this. Tell me what's going through your head?" He shook his head, face wet with tears. He took another step back. I risked going a step closer. "Please tell me what this is about." I was all but begging him.

Tristan smiled at me. It was a horrible, terrifying smile. I wanted to embrace him as much as I wanted to turn away, to avert my eyes away from that smile. "You know why, Teach. I'm worthless. You said so yourself." Another step back.

"I never said that! I never thought that!" I exclaimed. "That's not true!"

"You told me to kill myself."

"No! I would never tell you that! I care about all my students!"

"But not about me."

"I do! Please, let's talk about this. Let's go down to my office, we can make this better, I promise…"

"Did you know?"

"Know what, Tristan?" I stepped cautiously closer, but immediately halted as soon as Tristan began to move again in the opposite direction.

"You had to have known. I could tell from all those little comments you left on my papers."

"Is-is this about your grades? Those can be discussed! But you're passing my class with flying colors, why would you-"

"This isn't about that!" He spat at me. "Ladybird15."

Ladybird15. The bane of my existence. My mortal enemy. The original creator of the series 'Immortal Miracle.' Originally a web novel, it showed so much potential at the beginning. Engaging characters, deep world building, a mysterious villain working behind the scenes – it had all the makings for an, if not remarkable, enjoyable piece of literature. I was one of the many hundreds of thousands who read those first few dozen viral chapters and was hooked. It was good. And when it was announced that the creator had sold the idea to a studio to be made into an Animated Series, all of us fans were over the moon with excitement.

But then the concept changed from a dark and angst-filled 2D anime to a 3D style children's show. That in and of itself did not kill the interest in the project. Afterall, there have been many iconic children's media that has been able to appeal to the masses of all ages in the past. Perhaps this would be the same?

But it wasn't.

Gone was the interesting and diverse cast of characters and character dynamics. The interesting world building was skimmed down like milk from a store. The villain moved from mysterious to simply… vaguely absent. The homages to the main character's Chinese heritage were removed and swapped with Western-influenced replacements.

I looked at Tristan. Tristan Han, a first-year biracial student at the University I worked at. All of his work that he turned in for workshop were fanfictions of "Magical Miracle," the children's show based on "Immortal Miracle." To be fair, I had thought he wrote them because he, like I, was dissatisfied with the show. So, in the margins of his papers that I returned to him, I wrote sarcastic references to the show. I applauded his eye for critique and plot holes. I wrote scathing commentary on the original work, all the while urging him to write something of his own.

But… perhaps that isn't what Tristan was referring to. Dread settled in my stomach. "You knew who I am, didn't you?" Tristan demanded. "I recognized you. I could recognize your arrogant, self-praising, condescending essays anywhere, EyeCheese96!"

In any other scenario, somebody yelling my twitter handle at me would be funny. But now, I could only feel exposed. The dread curdled into uncomfortable lumps, and I swallowed down the bile that had risen in my throat. "Yes," I said carefully, taking a slow step closer to him. I kept my eyes trained on Tristan's, not looking away from the wild dilation of his pupils. "But I…" I floundered, frantically trying to grasp for an excuse or explanation.

Tristan turned away from me. The wind had picked up. It was tearing at our clothes, our hair. "No one understands," Tristan said softly, and I only heard because the wind happened to carry his words to me. "It wasn't my story anymore. None of it was. So why was I blamed? I needed the money. I couldn't have afforded coming here… I shouldn't have come here."

And with that, Tristan began to step forward one last time. I bolted. I felt a rush of pure relief as I managed to grab hold of Tristan's arm. But then he didn't stop. And I didn't stop. He was too heavy, or perhaps I was too weak. Maybe he was already too far over the edge, or perhaps I didn't stop in time.

We both went over the edge.