Stay on the Line

I’m walking through a city I don’t recognise. That’s the first problem. The second is that no one else seems to notice. People move around me with the quiet certainty of belonging — brisk footsteps, takeaway coffees, conversations that begin mid-sentence and end without goodbye. And me? I drift through it like I’ve been dropped halfway through a story — no map, no explanation, just the creeping feeling I don’t belong here. I’m a small town girl in a place that feels too loud, too fast, too certain of itself — and I am none of those things. “Bloody brilliant,” I mutter to myself. My phone rings. Unknown number. Of course it bloody is. I stare at it for a beat too long, thumb hovering like I’m defusing a bomb rather than answering a call. “Scam,” I say out loud. “Or another salesperson bullying me into selling my soul.” It keeps ringing. Curiosity — that nosy little cow — wins. I answer. “Hello?” A pause. Then — “Oh… sorry. I think I’ve got the wrong number.” I stop walking. I know that voice. “Jack?” Another pause. Longer this time. Heavier. “…Yeah.” Something shifts. Jack-from-work. Jack the lad. Happy-go-lucky Jack with his easy laughter and shitty jokes that never quite land. Jack. But this voice… is hollowed out. Deflated. Like someone has rung it dry and let nothing but the echo. “You okay?” I ask. A simple question. A stupid question. The conversational equivalent of offering a plaster to someone actively on fire. Silence stretches. “Hello? Are you still there?” A breath. Then — “No… No, I’m not.” Right. Okay. We’re doing this now. In a city I don’t know. With a phone call I almost ignored. “Alright,” I say, softer. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” I start walking again, slower now, like if I move too fast I might lose the connection — or him. “I just want the pain to end.” Blunt. No softening the edges. No metaphor. No attempt to make it easier to hear. Just straight through the ribs. “Jesus,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Okay… okay.” I swallow, recalibrate. Right. Brilliant. Love that this is happening now. I am wildly unqualified for this. The most emotional support I’ve offered recently is telling a houseplant it’s “doing its best.” But he’s here. And I answered. “Can you tell me more about that?” I ask, gently. There’s a faint clink on his end. Glass, maybe. “I’ve got everything I need,” he says. “Pills. Enough. Whisky to wash it down.” I physically stop. The world keeps moving around me, but I don’t. “Jack…” “I thought it would feel… clearer, you know? Deciding. But it just feels… quiet.” “Why does it feel like your only way out?” I ask. There’s a long pause. I can hear his breathing now. Shallow. “She just didn’t love me enough.” And there it is. Heartbreak — the silent assassin. No blood, no bruises. Just internal collapse. “I’m really sorry,” I say. And I mean it. “That kind of pain… it lies to you. Makes everything feel permanent.” “It is permanent,” he says flatly. I step off a curb without looking. A car honks. I flinch. “Oi! Watch it!” someone shouts. “Bit busy saving a life, mate!” I snap back — then immediately wince at my own tone, my timing, and complete lack of qualifications for literally any of this. “Sorry,” I mutter — to both of them. “Jack, listen to me,” I say, pressing the phone closer. “This feeling? It’s loud right now. Deafening. But it’s not the whole story.” “Feels like it is.” “I know it does.” I turn down a narrow street, the noise intensifying — traffic, voices, a siren somewhere far too close. “I just… I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he says. My chest tightens. “I get that,” I say. “Honestly. But ending your life doesn’t end the pain — it just hands it to everyone else who cares about you.” Silence. “Do you think anyone does?” he asks. “Yes,” I say immediately. “I do. Right now. I’m here, aren’t I?” Another pause. Then — The line crackles. Static. “No— no, no, no, no—” Not now. Not here. Not mid-sentence. Not mid-him. I’ve walked under a subway. Of course I have. Because why wouldn’t the universe choose now to test my signal strength and emotional resilience at the same time? “Jack? JACK?” Nothing. Dead. I yank the phone away, stare at it like it’s betrayed me personally. “No signal.” Of course there’s no signal. I stab at the screen, trying to call back. Unknown number. No history. No trace. “No, no, no, no, no…” I pace in tight circles, heart hammering. “Not like this. Not now.” My mind fills the silence for me. Jack in a dim flat. Curtains drawn. Pills lined up like a final decision. Whisky in his hand. No one there to interrupt the moment. A life paused. Then erased. “Come on,” I whisper, staring at the phone like I can will it to fix itself. “Please.” It rings. Unknown number. I answer before it finishes the first vibration. “Jack?” “Amanda?” Relief hits so hard I almost laugh. “Oh thank God,” I breathe. “I lost signal — I have absolutely no idea where I am, by the way, so if this turns into a rescue mission, just know I’ll be no help whatsoever.” A pause. Then — A small laugh. It’s faint. But it’s real. There it is. “Good,” I say quickly, seizing it. “That’s promising. If you can still laugh at my incompetence, we’re not completely doomed.” “Debatable,” he says. Dry. Better. “I mean, look at me,” I continue. “Lost in a mystery city, talking someone off a ledge, nearly taken out by a Ford Fiesta. If anyone’s a cautionary tale, it’s me.” Another small exhale. Not quite a laugh. But close enough to keep going. “Jack,” I say, softer now. “This feeling… it passes. Not magically. Not overnight. Not without dragging you through a bit of hell first. But it moves. And that matters.” “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to wait it out.” “You don’t have to be strong forever,” I say. “Just strong enough for today. Then we renegotiate tomorrow.” He’s quiet. I let the silence breathe this time. “I didn’t think anyone would pick up,” he says eventually. “I almost didn’t,” I admit. “Thought you were trying to sell me life insurance or a timeshare.” “…Maybe you should’ve ignored it.” “No,” I say firmly. “Definitely not.” A pause. Then — “Thank you.” It’s simple. But it lands. I exhale, tension I didn’t realise I was holding finally loosening. “Stay,” I say. It comes out firmer than I expect — less suggestion, more anchor. “Just… stay on the line. That’s enough for now. You don’t have to fix everything tonight. Just don’t disappear.” Another silence. Different this time. Less sharp. “Okay,” he says. Okay. I cling to that word like it’s oxygen. We talk a little longer — about nothing and everything. Small things. Safe things. The way people do when they’re slowly stepping back from an edge they’re not ready to look at directly. Then — “Goodbye, Amanda.” Not ‘see you’. Not ‘speak soon’. Just goodbye. Final enough to make something in me drop. “Jack— wait—” The line goes dead. I stand there. In a city I don’t know. Holding a phone that suddenly feels far too quiet. No callback. No confirmation. No ending. Just… absence. I wake with that same feeling still sitting in my chest. Unfinished. Unresolved. And it lingers — not because I don’t know what happened to Jack… …but because I don’t know which part of him was real. Or worse — Which part of me was. Because somewhere between the noise, the signal cutting out, and the desperate need to keep him talking… I recognise something uncomfortable. His voice wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. Not familiar — just usually better hidden. Not just because it was Jack. But because it echoed something I don’t often say out loud. That quiet, dangerous thought: I just want the pain to end. And maybe that’s the twist. Maybe this wasn’t a dream about saving someone else. Maybe it was a call I’ve been ignoring. From a part of myself that only gets through… When the noise drops, the signal cuts, and there’s nothing left to drown it out.