The line rang twice before someone picked up.

“You’ve reached the night line. This is Damiano. I’m here. Talk to me.”

You almost hung up.

You hadn’t meant to call, not really, you just needed noise. Something other than the storm in your head, the way your thoughts spun in circles like they wanted to eat themselves alive. It was 2:47 a.m. You were curled up on the bathroom floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, staring at the tile like it might split open and swallow you whole.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just breathed.

Shallow, broken, like the air hurt.

Damiano didn’t rush you.

He waited.

“I can hear you breathing,” he said quietly. “So I know you’re there. And that’s enough. Take your time.”

You blinked hard. A tear slipped down your cheek.

Then another.

“I don’t know why I’m calling,” you finally whispered.

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I just… I feel too much. And not enough. At the same time. Like I can’t… hold myself together anymore.”

There was a pause. Not a silence — just space. Gentle, warm.

“You don’t have to hold it all together,” he said. “Not with me. Let it fall apart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breath hitched. Your throat burned.

“I feel crazy.”

“You’re not.” His voice was steady, low, grounding. “You’re human. And right now, you’re hurting. That doesn’t make you broken. It makes you alive.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around your knees.

“I didn’t think anyone would pick up.”

“I always pick up.”

“Do you do this every night?”

He paused.

“Yeah. But… not like this. Not with you.”

You didn’t know what that meant, exactly. But there was something in the way he said it — soft, real — that made you believe you weren’t just another anonymous voice in the dark.

“Can I stay on the line?” you asked.

“As long as you need.”