The Headlight at 8PM

Back in 11th grade, my school had this genius idea that instead of eight classes a day, we’d only have four. “More time to immerse in the subject,” they said. In reality, it just meant twice as much time staring at the clock, wondering if lunch would ever arrive or if we’d all just die in history class and become exhibits ourselves.

Speaking of history class, that year we got handed the mother of all projects: teach a 45-minute lesson. Half the class. Half our grade. Fifty percent. Nothing says fun teenage memories like a looming academic guillotine.

Now, for context: I was a consistent A- kid. Smart enough to figure stuff out quickly, lazy enough to stop the second I did. Socially? I wasn’t “cool,” but I wasn’t a misfit either. I could bounce between groups without getting stuffed in a locker, which in high school is basically a superpower.

My survival strategy was obvious: latch onto someone brilliant. Why fight uphill when you can ride coattails?

Enter Jeremy (not his real name). Smartest kid in the school. The kind of guy who didn’t just ace the test, he broke the curve and ruined everyone else’s day. So I asked him: “Hey man, wanna team up for this project?”

His answer? “Oh, you don’t want to team up with me.”

Which is exactly the kind of thing someone way too smart says right before they realize you're already grabbing a seat next to them.

We set a time: 8pm at his place to pick our topic.

Then Joey called. Joey was my partner in teenage crime — specifically, the “let’s go smoke weed at the youth center” variety. At 17, that was pretty high on my Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

So there I was, debating the fork in the road: get high with Joey, or drive out to Jeremy’s? I knew myself. If I smoked, there was no way I was driving across town in the snow. I told Joey no, grabbed my coat, and headed for Jeremy’s.

At the time, it felt like a small, responsible decision. Later, I’d learn it was anything but small.

Jeremy wanted “college-level,” something big and heavy. We landed on Nazi medical experiments during WWII. Not exactly dinner-party conversation, but definitely full of shock factor and enough material to fill 45 minutes.

For two months we met weekly, hammering away at this project. And somewhere in there, I realized Jeremy wasn’t aloof — he was lonely. He lived far from everyone, didn’t socialize easily. I tried introducing him to friends, gave him tips on conversations, even threw in advice about talking to girls. He tried, stumbled, and slowly found a group where he actually fit. Watching him get lighter, happier, was its own kind of win.

Meanwhile, he taught me his secret to high marks: just keep asking why. Why, why, why, until you run out of whys. Then trim the fat, and boom — bulletproof essay. Honestly, it’s still one of the smartest tricks I’ve ever learned.

We balanced each other out: him with the seriousness, me with the jokes. Two unlikely co-captains navigating some seriously dark history.

The big day came. We crushed it. Full A+ energy. Teacher impressed, classmates impressed, hell, even Jeremy impressed. I walked out of history feeling like I belonged in it.

I invited him over afterward, partly to celebrate, partly to show I wasn’t just ditching him now that the grade was in.

That’s when he handed me a folded piece of paper. “Read this before I come over,” he said.

I unfolded it at home, expecting maybe a joke or some nerdy bonus fact. Instead, it hit me like a brick to the chest.

Jeremy wrote that the morning I’d asked him to be partners, he had already decided he couldn’t take the loneliness anymore. He had a plan. A method. A time: 8pm that night.

If I hadn’t shown up, the plan would’ve gone forward. But then he looked out his window and saw a single headlight — my snowmobile pulling into his driveway. We worked, we hung out, and suddenly tomorrow looked a little less impossible. Then another tomorrow. And another. By the time two months passed, he had friends, laughter, and a reason to keep going.

Seventeen-year-old me had no roadmap for that kind of revelation. I felt small, humbled, like Alice in Wonderland realizing the world was bigger and scarier and more fragile than I ever knew.

Jeremy and I didn’t become lifelong best friends. We drifted, as people do. But I’ll never forget the weight of that letter, or how close we all skate to the edge without knowing it.

Here’s the truth: every little decision, every small interaction, matters more than we think. Saying yes instead of no. Showing up instead of flaking. Sometimes it’s the difference between someone feeling invisible and someone feeling like they belong.

And if you or someone you love is struggling, please don’t carry that alone.

In Canada, you can call or text 9-8-8 for the Suicide Crisis Helpline, 24/7. If you’re elsewhere, look up your local hotline or use the international 988 Lifeline. Someone will pick up.