988

Three digits glow in the dark,
a lifeline whispered through static—
not a number, but a breath
caught before the fall.

Some nights, silence is a weight.
You press the phone to your chest,
feeling its pulse like your own,
unsure who will speak first—
you, or the trembling air.

“Are you safe right now?”
a voice gentler than dawn asks,
and something in you unknots.
Not fixed, not finished—
but seen.

Outside, the streetlights hum.
Inside, you count each inhale
as proof that you stayed.
Somewhere, another call rings—
another heart steadies.

And in the hush between
what almost ended
and what begins again,
you remember:
help is three digits away.