Dear Charlotte,

You don’t know me, and you will never know me. A teenage trans girl and a thirty-something cis man don’t often inhabit the same social circles. But even if we did, the chance we might’ve had to get to know one another has now passed. 

You are, as I understand, a young woman who took her own life on May 2nd. Your last post on Twitter functioned as a public suicide note. It consisted of only a picture and seven words:

It’s a pretty view

Long way down

I’m not here to judge you, Charlotte. Nor am I here to parse out your reasons for jumping. The inciting incident that convinced you now was the time to climb that bridge is none of my business. Hell, it was probably something minor in the grand scheme of things. I know it was for me the two times I attempted suicide. The straw that breaks the camel’s back can only do so thanks to the onerous burden all the other straws contribute. 

No, we all know why you did what you did. It’s the reason why 79% of trans Americans considered suicide in 2022, and why 39% tried to end their lives. I reckon it’s the same reason why most people who attempt suicide do so: we live in a world that is not made for us. We live in a world that is crueler than we can bear. We live in a world made for a run by the most vicious bastards and bitches we can imagine. 

We don’t even need to speculate on who those monsters are. They’ve made their identities clear. There’s a reason I didn’t link to your final post; many cretins have congregated there to celebrate your passing. I won’t bother to quote what they’re saying, because we’ve read it all before. They are as stupid and unoriginal as they are petty and cruel. What they say doesn’t matter because their ideas and opinions don’t count. They have no right to condemn you, no right to feel the way they think, no right to make others suffer. You were a better and more complete person than they hoped to be. I know very little about you, but I still feel absolute certainty in this judgment. 

I’ve seen some of the memorials posted by people who knew you. They describe your passions, your sense of humor, and the great potential you showed. They will miss you; they will carry on and honor your memory. Somebody attempted to deface your suicide spot with hateful art; their attempt failed. Your site is now strewn with flowers. I’m sure your friends will continue leaving flowers until the transphobes admit defeat.

As I said, I won’t judge you for what you did. That’s not my place. Besides, I don’t think what you did was truly your fault. Suicide is not something that bubbles up from the inside, as is commonly supposed. It is imposed upon us from the outside. I am sure you fought as long as you could. We all do. I am also sure you were stronger and braver than I am. To be a teenager is hard enough. To be a teenager in 2025 must be damn near impossible. To be a transgendered teenager in 2025 seems to me one of the most onerous burdens a person can bare. The fact that you could only shoulder your struggle for so long is understandable. What isn’t understandable is that the world made it such an onerous burden in the first place. 

The forces of evil continue to gather strength with every passing day. They will seek to snuff out all the lights that flicker in this world so they may dance in the darkness left behind. We who are still alive and carry a quantum of goodness within our souls must push back against the darkness. This is the solemn oath I, as one of these living, make to you, Charlotte. Your struggle is over; rest now. 

For those still around, we must create a world where people like Charlotte can admire that view without it being their last. 

Dear Stonetoss,

I’m writing this to you to say this: you can still stop. You can walk away from your comic, from your online persona. You can live an everyday life still, or as close to normal as is possible for a cretin like you. Nobody online will miss you. Indeed, not your haters, but neither will your “fans.” They supported you for the most vacuous reasons: you made people they hated feel a little worse every time they saw one of your strips. Everything you’ve ever drawn is as disposable to them as a slur hurled out a car window at somebody on a sidewalk. You, as a person, are disposable to them. If they found out tomorrow you killed yourself, they would shrug their shoulder, say “that sucks,” and then continue posting about crime statistics and skull shapes as if nothing happened. 

They might not even do that. After all, despite your Aryan-sounding name – Hans Kristian Graebner – you’re a Puerto Rican by descent. You’re a Latino, and thus, to most of the people who enjoy your content, you might as well be sub-human. Of course, you’re not sub-human to me, but what do you care about that? You’ve spent most of your adult life seeking to enrage people like me. You think our opinions are worthless, that we are useless. Very well, then. I’m sure you’ve made the right choice to embrace the ideology that seeks to kill all non-white people, while you do not meet their standards of white. 

Your haters are now mocking you online for complaining they’re treating you poorly. You’re right that they are; they’re calling for your death, they’re posting your address and your birth name. But have you considered that you deserve all this? Have you pondered what would happen if you acted the same way in real life as you do online? What would happen if, for instance, you went to Charlotte’s funeral and mocked her corpse in front of her family? Oh, what am I writing? Of course you have. That’s why you stick to posting your online comics and wish people would stop sharing your identity. In the real world, people would see you for what you are: a loser, a lonely little bastard who can’t feel good unless he’s making others feel bad. But online, you can delude yourself into thinking your voice matters and that what you say is worth listening to. 

I’m sure you’ve stopped reading by this point. Or perhaps you still are reading, but only because you think I’m triggered and want to savor my anger. But in this moment, I am not angry at you. There have been times when I wanted to vent my righteous indignation in your direction. But those times are long gone. Now I just pity you. You’re like every online troll who’s trolled for too long. You’re a sad, lonely, pathetic man who spends his days making comics about how much he hates the blacks, the gays, and the Jews, because he’s burnt every other bridge in his life. 

I want you to think on this, Hans: someday, you will die. This isn’t a threat. It’s only an acknowledgement of a basic fact. Death comes for all of us. The young and old, the rich and poor, the good and wicked. Someday, you will face eternity, in whatever form it confronts the recently deceased. I want you to understand that, at this moment, this is your legacy: 

If they even think of you, this is what people will think of, long after you’re gone. Your poorly drawn comics where you mock dead children, rant about how the Jews control the world, and call black people savages. This is what you will leave behind. Your mourners – if there are any – will be the most pathetic, soul-curdled examples of modern man. Do you think they like you? Do you think they are even capable of picking you? 

Be honest with yourself, Hans. What do you want people to think when they see a picture of you? 

Do you want them to think what they do now? Because I wouldn’t. I would dread waking up in the morning if I knew I was as roundly despised as you are. 

You still have a chance, Hans. You have an opportunity to live an everyday, happy life. Charlotte doesn’t have this chance because of people like you; she never did.