There are days when the world forgets to open,
when the handle stays cold in my hand
and the room behind it hums without me.
Once, that kind of silence hollowed me out.
Today, it only stings.
I have learned that absence is not a verdict,
only a doorway holding its breath.
I stand in that pause
until my pulse finds its rhythm again.
Strength returns in small increments,
like a room warming
after someone finally turns the radiator on.
Slow, but certain.
I am not what was done to me.
I set the chair back under the table
after waiting alone.
The gesture is small, but it steadies me.
And when the next door opens,
as doors eventually do,
I will cross its threshold
like someone who knows
the ground will hold.