A/N: So this is a one shot, that I'm actually working on an alternative, that will hopefully be better than this one. But I heard this song, closed my eyes, and even though this song isn't really about suicide, this is what I envisioned. The alternative will be up by Sunday, I hope. :D

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI:NY, Alex Reeves however is my OC. Oasis owns this song

PS. If you'd like, you can check out the song "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" by Oasis while you're reading this!

"Stop Crying Your Heart Out"

Fingertips against the cold metal railing of the Manhattan Bridge. Eyes closed, water current swimming 336 feet under her. 102 meters. Cars buzzing behind her, hair whipping in her face, iPod playing.

Her mother once said she had a nice singing voice. Before she died in '91.

She licked her lips, her eyes still closed, and breathed in the salty air. People had walked by her, and ignored her. No one cared that a complete stranger was about to jump off a bridge.

No one would care if she was gone. No one cared that she was here. She pulled her blue Rangers beanie cap off her head, unbuttoned the buttons on her brown leather jacket, and set the items on the ground. She bent over, and untied her white shoelaces to her gray converses, and tugged them off her feet. And then she pulled her purple socks off her feet. Her mother always told her never to get her socks and shoes wet. No doubt a homeless persons would pick these things up, and have a nice warm rest of the winter.

"Not like I'm using them," she mumbled, brushing back her light brown hair.

She stepped back up against the rail, and lifted her leg over. "Stop!" someone yelled. She ignored them. Her other leg was already flying over the railing as well. Her hair was blowing behind her, as she held onto the railing, the only thing keeping her from falling into the ice cold water was her hands gripping the cold metal barrier from sidewalk to death.

"Stop!" a man spoke frantically for a second time. "Don't do this. You don't wanna do this."

"Yes I do," she smiled, her iPod still blaring the same song, as she leaned out into the air. "I wonder if I could ever fly," she giggled. "Be free. I wanna be free."

She wasn't sure what the man behind her looked like. Who he was. She didn't think it mattered. He had just stopped what he was doing to make sure she didn't jump.

"There are lots of ways to be free," he spoke, his voice stern but yet gentle and raspy, his Staten Island accent strong. "You don't need to jump."

"How do you become free then?" she asked, turning towards him, her hand almost falling when she made contact with the man. The same pain evident in his clear greenish blue eyes that where swimming in hers. Familiarity floating on his skin. She knew his name. Knew his smile. Knew everything about him.

"Careful," he said, setting his hand over hers so she wouldn't fall. "What are you listening to?"

"Oasis." She said, turning back to look at the water under her feet. "Stop Crying your Heart out."

He knew this song. He sang it with his neighborhood friend every night on the phone.

"Cause all of the stars have faded away," he sang, causing her to let out a laugh at his horrible singing. "Let me buy you a coffee."

"I don't drink that shit," she told him. "It's bad for you."

"Hot chocolate?"

"I don't need a therapist."

"Hey," he said, waving his hands in surrender. "I just wanna know why you're jumping."

She turned around, to face him and set her hand in her back pocket, pulling out a yellow lined piece of paper, wrinkled and torn. He could tell it'd been folded over and over again. As if she read it over and over. Perfected it until she was ready to go through with the ideas running through her mind. Killing herself. Putting an end to her misery.

"I thought about turning my car on and closing the garage door," she told him. "Best way to go. Just fall asleep. Listening to my tunes, and never wake up." She turned back around, her hands still gripping the railing.

"And then I realized," she started. "This feeling is so much better. Peaceful."

"What's so peaceful about jumping off a damned bridge?"

"Everything," she told him. "Close your eyes."

"Then you'll jump."

"Cross my heart hope to die."

The blond man nodded his head, and rested his hands on the railing beside her, then closed his eyes. "Taste the air," she whispered, setting her left hand over his right.

"Salty," he nodded his head, licking his lips.

"What do you hear?" she asked him.

"Wind. Cars."

"If you listen closely. You can hear the water rippling," she told him, squeezing his hands. "And the cold wind against your face. It makes your cheeks turn red."

He nodded his head. "This is peaceful," he agreed.

"Told you so," she smiled, letting go of his hands. She climbed over the railing, and grabbed her shoes.

"What are you doing?" He asked, watching her tie the converses, and then she gave him a smile.

"I'm walking away," she whispered, handing him the letter. "It's Alex."

"Danny. Danny Messer," he whispered, watching her walk away. He shook his head, and opened the yellow paper.

How would I do it? That is a question that has been running through my mind for 375 days. How would I kill myself if I ever got the guts to do it?

Hanging? No. That's too gruesome. You're neck breaks. You shit your pants, your body can go months without anyone realizing you're gone.

Sleeping pills? Too risky. A lot of people survive that. Gun to the head? Also too risky. My choices had been narrowed down. Gasoline, or bridge. If I fell asleep in my garage, I wouldn't even know that I was dieing. However, I feared I wouldn't be able to sleep. Jumping seemed more logical. More peaceful. Less messy. No blood, no poop, no body. They water washes you away. It's like you haven't even been here on earth. When whoever finds me, they will read this letter. They will know that I chose the bridge, and they will know why I did it.

I did it because I've been hurting. For too long. Maybe not long enough. 375 days ago my life ended, even before I actually jumped off the Manhattan Bridge. My mother died in '89 of lung cancer. My father drank himself to death soon after. I was left to raise my baby brother. January 22 2003, my home was raided by a drug lord. He killed my brother, for God only knows what, and he…he and his four little buddies each had his way with me. Beaten, lost, lonely. Scared. Tarnished. January 23, 2003, as I sat in the hospital. I knew I'd kill myself. And as I mourned over the anniversary of my brother's death last night, I decided it was time for the water to take my body away. I decided my life is no longer important.

When you identify this body, you'll know that my name is Alex Reeves. That I am 28 years old, born and raised in Staten Island. And you'll also know that no one is looking for me. Because I'm all of the stars, and I've already faded away. You'll see me some day.

"Alex Reeves," he mumbled shaking his head. He knew her. He grew up just a block away from her. They played wiffle ball together from the time they were 7 and 9. He chased her around the neighborhood with a snake when they were 12 and 14, and he made love to her in the back of his brother's mustang when they were 15 and 17. "That's why she didn't jump," he whispered. She had realized it was him. How could he not have remembered his first love?

"Alex!" he yelled, hurrying in the direction she had come. "Alex!" He couldn't believe that Alex Reeves had just tried to commit suicide. That he just stopped her.

He finally caught up with her. "Alex," he smiled, grabbing her arms, pressing his forehead against hers. "Hey. Where yah been?"

"Around," she whispered, clinging onto his jacket, taking in his scent. And just like he had 13 years ago, he saved her.