NOT KNOWING

I haven’t turned it.

Not yet.

But it’s there—metal, warm beneath my curled fingers.

I tell myself

I’m just catching my breath,

not stalling.

Not afraid.

fingers firm like they’ve done it before—

like they know something I don’t.

Behind this door

could be truth,

guilt,

a voice I’ve needed to hear.

Or nothing at all.

Just the echo of my own wanting,

I listen.

There’s no sound,

but still—

I listen harder.

The moment stretches:

a breath caught between ribs,

a pause between question and answer,

a bridge between earth and stars

I am in love

with the not-knowing.

The ache of it,

the thrill that anything—

everything—

might live on the other side.

So I stay like this:

one foot on the hinge of change,

one foot back in the safety of before,

the door forgiving my silence

as if it, too,

knows the cost of a choice.