When I was little, I thought heroes were brave, bold people who never had to worry about themselves. But that was before I was someone’s hero. And heroes, they hurt too.

“I need you,” pleads the voice in the phone.

“Okay, I’ll be right over.” It’s an automatic reply. Alicia always seems to need me—I don’t know if she realizes that I have needs, too. But she’s my best friend. I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I walk into her living room and see her holding pills and a glass of water. “You don’t need that,” I cry in desperation. If she wants to go through with it, there is nothing I can say to change her mind. But I’ll try. “I love you!”

She smiles, and calls me her hero. But I don’t feel like anyone’s hero, least of all mine.

Later that night, I lie in bed and cry, because I don’t know how much longer I can be brave. Because she’s hurting me more then she knows.

Hard to believe, isn’t it? But us heroes hurt, too.