I stand by the door too long, keys pressed hard in my palm. Shoes half-tied, mirror checked again, jaw clenched without meaning to. The air sneaks in through the cracks, cooler, lighter, like it’s calling me. My chest feels tight, but not the way it used to. It’s a pause, like the breath you hold before diving in. This is the moment I’ve been writing toward, where the world waits on the other side. The engines, the voices, the footsteps, they don’t sound like threats this time. I press my weight against the handle, and whisper just loud enough to believe: I can step into this. Every sound feels closer — birds tangled with traffic, laughter from strangers I can’t see. I keep my grip steady, hands no longer shaking. The door frame doesn’t hold me hostage. It feels more like a threshold, a line I can cross. My pulse hammers quick, but it doesn’t scare me. It feels like rhythm, something I can follow, instead of escape. This is the moment I’ve been writing toward, where the world waits on the other side. The engines, the voices, the footsteps, they don’t sound like threats this time. I press my weight against the handle, and whisper just loud enough to believe: I can step into this. The walls are behind me, unfinished pages scattered in ink. The silence, the static, the shadows — they don’t own me anymore. I belong to the air, to the light waiting outside. This is the moment I’ve been writing toward, where the world waits on the other side. The engines, the voices, the footsteps, they don’t sound like threats this time. I press my weight against the handle, and whisper just loud enough to believe: I can step into this, I can step into this, I can finally step out.
