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.
Through the Fog 