The Door

 I knew I couldn’t go back when I found myself standing outside in single-digit temperatures.

No shoes.
No coat.
No keys.

I was barely dressed, the cold cutting through me faster than panic could form. Behind the locked door, he laughed. Mocked me. Took his time with it.

I don’t remember yelling. I remember the sound of my own breathing—too fast, too loud—and the way the morning felt wider than it ever had before.

That was the moment something in me went quiet. Not fear. Not hope. Just knowing.

I understood then that staying would cost me whatever life I still had. And leaving would cost me everything else.

The life I had wasn’t living.
It was endurance dressed up as loyalty.

I didn’t know how to leave yet. I only knew I couldn’t go back inside.

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