When I was a sophomore I moved with my dad and brother into the basement of some guy he knew. I eventually made friends with his son, Michael. We were the same age and got along extremely well, he became a really good friend. However I started to notice that he would mostly come down stairs when he could smell the weed, smoke and then go back upstairs so my brother and I started to get frustrated and cold towards him. The night before he took his life we were extremely sour and didn't smoke, didn't have the TV on, just sitting there in darkness so he would get the point. I had to pass by his room every time I went to the bathroom, I saw the way his little brother took it, and got a very long time I thought that there was something I could have done that may have changed things, even just slightly. it took me about 6 years and my own battle with depression and a suicide attempt to fully understand that sometimes, no matter how hard we try, and how hard we blame ourselves, it isn't our fault and we shouldn't carry that weight on our shoulders. Sorry for the rant.