Emergency Contact

I rolled my ankle at a 5K. The first aider called my emergency contact. It was still him.

His name was Owen. Two years of Sunday jogs, shared playlists, and him yelling "Come on, you've got this!" from the sidelines like a proud dad. When we broke up, I changed my password, my wallpaper, and my coffee order. I forgot the one thing that mattered. The little Medical ID on my phone.

I was sitting on the pavement, mud on my knees, a volunteer holding my phone to her ear. "Hi, is this Owen? We have your... friend? She's had a minor fall. Can you come?"

I wanted the ground to swallow me. I tried to grab the phone. She waved me off.

Eleven minutes later, a familiar grey hoodie came sprinting through the finish line crowd. Out of breath. Eyes wild. He dropped to his knees beside me and checked my ankle like it was made of glass.

"I'm fine," I said. "It's just a sprain. You didn't have to come."

"You were my first call," he said. "I'd have come from Scotland."

At the first aid tent, the nurse smiled at him, tapping her tablet. "Funny. Her details say you're her emergency contact. And yours says..."

She turned the screen toward me.

Emergency contact: me.

He'd never changed his either.

We'd been broken up for seven months.

Both of us had been quietly listing each other as the person who'd come running.