When I woke up choking on thick smoke, I calmly dialed my boyfriend’s work number three times—he’s a fire captain.

When he finally answered, all I got was his angry yelling: “Don’t be jealous, I’m just doing my job. Do you really have to joke about a fire?”

In the noisy background, I could hear Ivy gushing, “Thank you so much! You’re my hero!”

With the flames creeping closer, I didn’t have time to argue. I reported the fire right away.

The operator regretfully told me, “The nearest fire station is on another emergency call. It’ll take half an hour to reach you. I’ll coordinate with other rescue teams immediately.”

In a daze, I saw a news notification: the fire captain had mobilized all rescue forces and successfully saved a suicidal, depressed girl.

If I remember right, this was Ivy’ 99th bout of depression.

I looked desperately at the warped door and then out the window from the 18th floor. Between being burned alive or falling to my death, I chose the latter.

Just before I passed out from suffocation, I sent my last text message: [I’m leaving. I wish you all happiness. Please don’t disturb or miss me.]

——

I saw my own body, curled up like a sculpture in the corner of the balcony.

Even though there was no breath between my lips, my face still showed a longing for life.

A wet towel had fallen from my left hand, stained black from filtering smoke. The fingers on my right hand were horribly burned, with charred skin peeling away to reveal crimson flesh. My pinky finger was almost nothing but bone.

It turns out I’m already dead.

Twenty minutes ago, I was shaken awake.

When I opened my eyes, thick smoke was everywhere.

The fire had started in the kitchen and spread through most of the living room.

I stayed calm, wet a towel, covered my mouth and nose, and crouched low to feel for the door.

My boyfriend, Aiden, is the fire brigade captain, and I’ve learned a lot from him.

The door lock was glowing red-hot. Even through the thick, wet towel, I got burned and shivered from the pain.

Blisters quickly formed on my delicate fingertips. I fought through the pain and tried pulling the handle a few times, but the door wouldn’t budge.

The door frame had warped from the heat and was jammed shut.

The smoke got thicker, almost blocking my view.

My head started to spin—a sign of carbon monoxide poisoning.

I hurried to the balcony, opened the window as wide as it would go, and made my first emergency call.

To my boyfriend, Aiden, who was currently not speaking to me.

Today was Aiden’s duty day, and the fire station he leads is only a five-minute drive away. High-rise rescues are his specialty.

“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later.”

A cold, indifferent tone played from the phone.

I double-checked the number—it was his work phone.

When Aiden gave me that number, he had promised:

“Elena, this is my work phone. It’s only for emergencies, and I’ll never turn it off. You have to pick it up when it rings. Aside from my colleagues, only you know this number. Think of it as our emergency signal. Whenever you call, I’ll be there right away.”

I had already dialed 911.

But after hesitating for a moment, I tried Aiden again.

The area I’m in is his responsibility, so the call would eventually go to him anyway. Maybe it would be quicker to contact him directly.

The sound of the phone ringing echoed in my ears.

Until I heard Aiden’s angry voice.

“I’m busy! What do you want? Don’t waste my time!”

I realized I had unconsciously dialed his number a third time.

This time wasn’t intentional.

I shook my heavy head and tried to look out the window.

My nose felt swollen, like I couldn’t breathe at all. I guess I had already been poisoned by carbon monoxide while I was sleeping.

Aiden didn’t notice my heavy breathing. When I didn’t respond right away, he grew impatient.

“Elena, there’s a fire at home, can you come and save—” I struggled to push the words out through my burning throat, but he cut me off with a heartless reprimand:

“Elena, please stop being so jealous.”

“I’ve explained a million times, that there’s nothing between me and Ivy, I’m just doing my job. Why can’t you believe me?”

“Do you really have to joke about a fire?”

In the noisy background, I heard Ivy’s slightly sobbing, admiring voice: “I thought my brother didn’t care about me anymore. You’re truly my savior!”

Is there really nothing going on between you two?

I questioned Aiden in my mind, and I questioned myself.

Over the past year, Aiden’s work phone has been ringing constantly, day and night.

Even when he was woken up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, he’d rub his tired eyes, throw on his coat without a word, and rush out the door.

I thought it was just the demands of his promotion.

But then I noticed that the same name kept popping up on his phone.

Ivy.

A woman’s intuition told me something was off.

So, I secretly checked Aiden’s recent call logs.

There were only a few genuine work-related calls.

But Ivy’s name? It was everywhere.

My boyfriend of five years would drop everything to help another woman in an emergency.

But when I made the one desperate call for help, I got nothing but scolding and insults.

How ironic.

I heard the busy tone in the receiver.

Aiden had hung up on me.

The flames crept closer, and while I was still conscious, I hurriedly reported the fire.

As I expected, after the operator confirmed my address, they transferred the call to Aiden’s station.

Wait, what? Everyone’s on duty, but they’re too far away? Why not send help from a nearby station?

Nonsense! Aiden would never make such a hasty decision!

I don’t know what reply he got, but he seemed annoyed, impatiently tapping his fingers on the table.

Suddenly, the operator’s voice cut off.

He realized I could hear him and quickly hit the mute button.

A moment later, he picked up the line again and regretfully informed me, “I’m sorry, ma’am, the nearest fire station is currently on another emergency call. Please stay on the line, and I’ll coordinate with other rescue teams immediately.”

My head was getting heavier and heavier.

I pinched my thigh hard twice, just to stay alert. I asked hurriedly, “How much longer do I have to wait? I’m not sure I can hold on much longer.”

The operator carefully chose his words.

The rescue teams have been dispatched, and they’ll arrive one after another. The fire station near you has the best high-rise rescue equipment in the city and should be there in about half an hour.

He then mentioned some self-rescue tips.

I looked helplessly at the bathroom filled with water, the wet bedsheet at my feet, and the damp towel in my hand.

I was sorry to tell him that I had already tried everything.

In a daze, I saw a news notification that the fire captain had mobilized all rescue forces and successfully saved a suicidal and depressed girl.

I laughed bitterly.

If I remember correctly, this was Ivy’s 99th episode of depression.

I’m so tired of this excuse.

A month ago, Aiden and I had a huge fight.

That day was supposed to be our engagement party.

On my left was my mom, who had traveled for hours by train to be there.

On my right was my future mother-in-law, who looked down on me, glaring with disdain.

Other relatives surrounded us, exchanging awkward glances.

The table was filled with all my favorite dishes, which Aiden had pre-ordered.

The waiter brought out a cake with a ring hidden inside, specially arranged by Aiden.

The officiant, holding Aiden’s written vows, awkwardly raised the microphone.

But Aiden never showed up.

I wasn’t sure if he was even serious about it.

Two hours later, after the party ended, Aiden sent a cold, emotionless text: [Sorry, emergency call, I’ll be back once it’s done.]

He didn’t come back all night.

At 2 a.m., Ivy updated her social media with a post on her private account:

[Every time depression hits, I just want to escape from the world. But then you’re there, making me stay and forget everything else.]

There was a picture attached to the post, showing two hands tightly clasped together. The scars on the back of the larger hand stood out sharply.

The next night, Aiden came home looking exhausted. I didn’t get angry. I calmly talked about our five-year relationship and his connection with Ivy that seemed to go beyond work. He stayed silent, his fingers constantly moving as he occasionally looked down to reply to messages on his work phone.

I couldn’t help but notice the scar on the back of his hand. Then I accidentally caught sight of the name in the message box— “Ivy baby.” The long-buried frustration and resentment inside me were about to boil over. But before I could say anything, Aiden cut me off with, “Can you lower your voice? You’re acting like a fishwife.” He told me to calm down. So, I did—I calmly packed my suitcase and left our newly renovated home.

The operator on the phone had no idea about the turmoil in my heart but still tried to comfort me. “Please stay hopeful and hang in there! The firefighters will get you out safely!” I looked at the time; five minutes had already passed. Not only had I missed the golden window to escape, but the half-hour they promised now felt distant and uncertain.

After hanging up, I didn’t care about anything else. I ran into the fire with a wet blanket, twisted the doorknob, and kicked at the door desperately. The smell of burnt skin filled the air. I looked down and saw my right hand, bloodied, with peeled skin stuck to the doorknob. The hem of my clothes had caught fire. My hope of escaping through the front door was shattered.

The sunset filtered through the window, mingling with the flickering flames. I struggled to reach the balcony and looked out from the 18th floor. If I jumped, I’d surely be crushed. So, faced with the choice of burning or falling to death, I chose the former.

Shortly afterward, Aiden, who was across the city, received a text notification. Maybe my will to live was too strong, because my soul seemed to follow that message to Aiden’s side. It was busy around him. Ivy’s face was full of fear, and her tears soaked Aiden’s collar. He gently patted her head and comforted her, “Promise me, don’t do anything rash. No matter how tough it gets, I’m here for you.”

Aiden’s colleagues exchanged uneasy glances, clearly frustrated but too afraid to speak up. The youngest firefighter, Leonardo, was nudged forward and timidly reminded him, “Aiden, the command center called half an hour ago about a major fire in one of the high-rises downtown. Shouldn’t we head out?” I recognized him as the rookie who had just started.

Aiden looked a bit annoyed. After straightening Ivy’s hair and adjusting his collar, he finally replied, “Didn’t I say to send a few of the veterans? There’s no need to wait for me.”

Leonardo hesitated, then said, “You might’ve forgotten, but you called the whole team to save Ivy, and you even brought the only aerial ladder truck in the city.”

Aiden, feeling challenged, snapped, “Are you questioning my decision? Both situations involve lives, and I have to follow the protocol! If you’re so eager to prove yourself, then go ahead, I’m not stopping you!”

Leonardo, blunt as ever, responded sarcastically, “This isn’t about proving anything. You’re the captain, leading us all to play hero for a damsel in distress. If we don’t get her to smile, how can we leave?”

“Enough!” Aiden’s face went pale, and he shouted angrily. Just as the two were about to clash, Ivy tugged on Aiden’s sleeve and spoke softly, “Please don’t be angry. We’re all just trying to save lives. I’ll go with you.”

She then turned to the firefighters, bowed deeply, and tearfully said, “I’m so sorry for using up your resources. Thank you for giving me a second chance at life.”

A female firefighter couldn’t help but roll her eyes and muttered under her breath, “Yeah, you said the same thing last time!”

The fire burned for another half hour. Aiden and his team finally rushed out. But by then, my dear fiancé, the unforgiving flames had already claimed my life. I won’t be a burden to you anymore.