You started coming less before you stopped coming at all. You would walk in with fresh lines on your wrists traced by whatever came to hand since your mother started hiding all the knives. Safety razors are a marketable lie.
I would call you aside for chats and you would lie and I would let you. “Everything is fine at home.” You had not the energy for the truth and neither had I.
You said you don’t see a future here. We all know there’s no future anywhere. Yet if we stop pretending, the walls we’ve built will decay overnight.