The towel fell and I didn't reach for it

The towel fell and I didn't reach for it.

Stepped over the damp corner, walked out.

An hour later I'm standing in the doorway

like it's a crime scene and I'm the detective.

One edge curled up from the tile,

a darker patch where the water won't dry.

This is how small things prove you.

This is what you don't do

when you think nobody's keeping score.

I could walk in there right now.

One motion. Pick it up. Done.

The space between knowing and doing

is exactly this: a towel on cold floor,

my hand knowing what to do,

my body choosing the hallway instead.

I know what happens if I leave it.

Mildew. A smell. The dark spreading

through the cotton like it's learning

how to rot.

But maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe it just dries.

Maybe it's fine.

I stand here anyway, waiting for the towel

to confess what it knows about me—

that I saw the mess and chose

to leave it there.

That I can do that.

That I just did.