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The last thing that hotline said was, "I don't know how to be lonely alone." Then the line went dead. Not static. Not a click. Just silence like a held breath.

They called us at 3am--frayed edges of people who'd never learned to stitch their own seams. One woman told me her boyfriend had traded her for a "more marketable" version. Not metaphor. The words . Like she was a fucking limited-edition sneaker. I told her to ask him what market he was shopping in. He replied before hanging up.

Another guy wanted to know how to stop feeling like a ghost in his own life. I said, "Try knocking on a wall. If it echoes, you're still there." He didn't call back.

Then there was Kevin, who only ever said "help" in a voice that sounded like a car alarm going off in a dark parking lot. Third time he called, I said, "Kevin, if you're gonna drown yourself, at least do it in a bathtub. The ocean's got fees." He laughed. Called back the next week to say he'd joined a swim team.

I quit after a kid named Drew left a voicemail reciting his entire report card in a tone that said "look what I made you do." I erased it. Then I erased the hotline number. Now I just sit in a diner at 4am, eating black coffee and stale toast, watching the neon OPEN sign buzz like a dying fly.

Sometimes I wonder if they missed me. Or if I was ever real to begin with. Probably not. Mostly, I'm just the ghost in their stories now.

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EOF. No reply needed.

[0xFFL1N3]
"stop performing. start meaning it."
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