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Jane makes a clear definition in her mind between the word "attempt" and the word "try".
When Greg finds her, three weeks after, in bed but not sleeping, never sleeping, god how she wishes she could sleep- he shouts and gesticulates, waving his arms and asking her "god, Jane, are you /trying/ to kill yourself?"
She laughs humorlessly and rolls away from him, the bed too big, too cold, too empty- she had tried sleeping in the middle of it, to make it seem smaller, but always ended up on the right side, her side. His side was untouched, sheets still smooth. "Yes," she croaks, voice raw and biting, and so very tired. "Maybe I am."
Greg's face falls, and she feels a little guilty, but not for long. As soon as he regains his bearings, he shouts again. She isn't angry at him; she know it comes from worry, from fear for her. His voice pitches up and his movements are stiffer. There's less accusing, and more pleading. "I will not let you rot away in here," he presses. "I will not let you just /stop/. You need to /eat/, Jane. To hell with your roundabout suicide attempt."
She bristles and snarles at him, like a wounded animal. "I'm not attempting anything. I am making no action to harm myself." Try, attempt. Specifics.
"Inaction is the same thing, Jane."
"No it isn't."
Greg walks to her and squats by the bed. He tries to smile at her, but it comes out looking mangled and unnatural. She bites her lip hard and tries to roll away again; but he touches her shoulder and she stills. "If this were different," he whispers, "if it were me laying in bed for weeks," he breaks off to touch her face, and withdraws his hand when she recoiles, "would you accept me saying what you're saying now?"
"Don't compare this to you," Jane snaps, sitting up and glaring down at him. "You don't understand this." that isn't fair. The brown of his eyes are rimmed in red, hammocked in dark bags from where he has launched himself into work, neglecting sleep. His clothes are as wrinkled as his forehead was, knit together, knotting at the eyebrows, showing his worry, and the headache he no doubt has. She muses that it was probably a good thing he has shorn all his hair scalp-short, or it would be a mess, too. She looks away. "Sorry."
"Jane," he whispers. "Come eat."
He makes her a small but tasty meal of rice and egg drop soup. He stays with her to ensure she eats all of it, watches a few hours of shit telly with her, and puts her back to bed. He offers to stay but she says no. He leaves; both of them going back to being sad, but Greg going back to a busy, bright house, with his daughter and his dog, full of reasons to smile and things to do.
Jane goes back to bed, and back to trying.
She still can't sleep.