The Emergency Contact

You stored my number as ICE
before I ever froze—
three letters under my name,
a door marked for emergencies.

When I called, I never said help.
I said the kettle had caught fire,
the dog had gone missing,
there was someone breathing
on the other side of the wall.

You arrived with a torch,
two bottles of water,
and the face of a man
who had been waiting
to become necessary.

I gave you the small disasters first:
a bruise from a cupboard door,
a week without sleep,
a lock that turned but did not hold.

You fixed them beautifully.
You tightened every screw twice.

What you didn’t know—
I left the cupboard open.
I loosened the lock.
The dog was at my sister’s.

By autumn, you slept lightly,
one shoe beside the bed.
You said my name in your sleep
like a person checking a pulse.

I began leaving one light on,
one door not quite latched.
You slept with your hands half-raised,
palms open to the dark.

When you asked what happened before you,
I gave you a country,
a hospital,
a dead girl who looked like me.

You made a file of her—
dates, symptoms, likely cause.
You were so gentle with the fiction
I almost became honest.

The first time you said,
“I can’t do this anymore,”
I set off the smoke alarm.

You climbed the stairs barefoot.
You found me sitting in the bath,
fully dressed,
letting the tap run.

You called it a relapse.
I called it timing.

We both mistook the other
for the person in charge.

At the end, I left you the key,
the torch,
the number saved under ICE.

You stood in the hall
with your hands full of equipment,
watching the house refuse to collapse.

Now you tell people
I ruined your life.

Perhaps.

But I was only the alarm.

You were the one
who kept answering.