Exit Signs

I’ve memorized

every exit sign

in every room

I’ve ever entered.

Not consciously—

it just happens.

My eyes find them

before they find people.

The quiet glow above a door,

that steady promise

that leaving

is always an option.

I sit in conversations

half-present,

half-planning—

measuring distance,

timing silence,

figuring out

how long I can stay

before I start to disappear.

It’s not that I want to leave.

It’s that I need to know

I can.

Because I’ve been in places

where doors didn’t feel real,

where staying

was the only choice

and it cost me more

than anyone ever saw.

So now I look for exits

even when I’m safe.

Even when nothing’s wrong.

Just in case.

Just in case

the air shifts,

the room changes,

the ground under me

starts to feel familiar

in all the wrong ways.

And maybe one day

I’ll sit somewhere

long enough

to forget to look.

Maybe one day

I’ll trust a room

to hold me

without needing

a way out.

But until then—

I’ll keep noticing

the soft red glow

above every door,

and reminding myself

I can leave

if I need to.