C Bee
Google
I visited this bar many times; the last was during one of the hardest nights of my life. I wasn’t loud or disruptive — I was struggling, and just needed a place to sit. When my emotions surfaced and I began to cry, someone at the table told me to leave. A few minutes later, I accidentally dropped a glass inside, and the owner told me to leave the bar altogether.
No one asked if I was okay. No one offered compassion.
It wasn’t just embarrassing — it was dehumanizing.
This bar has a picture on the wall of a girl named Jessica, who used to come there. She died by suicide. One of the previous time visiting the bar I asked who she was, they said it quickly, quietly, like her story didn’t belong anymore.
This place may serve drinks, but it doesn’t serve people — not the ones hurting, not the
ones who need a moment of grace.
And so I wrote this:
---
Jessica
by C Bee
I sat at the table, my silence was loud,
Not looking for pity, just out of the crowd.
But sorrow spilled out like a drink on the floor,
And they stared like I shouldn’t be there anymore.
A dropped glass, a sob, and then I was told:
"Leave."
Like I was the problem. Like I couldn’t grieve.
They didn’t see the storm I survived,
Only the part of me barely alive.
Not rage, not threat — just wanting to be in that space.
But some people panic when sadness shows face.
It’s easier to label, to push pain away,
Than to ask someone hurting if they’re okay.
And then I noticed a frame on the wall,
A picture of someone once known by all.
I asked, “Who is she?” and the silence grew—
"That’s Jessica… she used to come here too.”
The words felt heavy, like air turned to stone.
Another soul who sat here, hurting alone.
In the back of the bar where the lights were low,
She sat in her silence, and nobody’d know
That her heart was breaking, slow and unseen—
She smiled like smoke, and slipped in between.
Later, they posted her photo online,
"If only we knew, if only a sign..."
But the signs were there — they always are —
You just didn’t look. You sat at the bar.
And now she’s a headline, a moment, a name—
But when she was breathing, you played the same game.
So I carry her memory like a flame in my chest,
A vow to show up, even when pressed.
To never let someone sit in that space
Without at least offering a little grace.
And if my truth makes the shallow turn cold,
Then I’ll sit alone, but I’ll sit bold.
Because I won’t be silence. I won’t be shame.
I won’t be scared to speak her name.
And if you ever wonder what kindness is worth—
It’s a chair pulled close.
A soft place on earth.
