Accepted

The cursor blinks in the To: field.

[email protected].

I wrote this email yesterday.

I still haven't sent it.

The body is flawless. Grateful.

I'm honored to announce my own cage.

Effective immediately, I am no longer

the person I was yesterday.

I prayed for this. Two years of

please, please, please, until I forgot

I was saying it out loud, until it became

the thing I woke up wanting.

Now I have it. Now it's mine.

Now I'm supposed to shine, to prove

the prayer wasn't a mistake, to not

think about escape routes while I'm signing the lease.

My phone is lit up with congratulations.

Everyone is proud. Everyone thinks

I made it. Nobody knows the prayer

was just a way to stop thinking.

The cursor blinks. To: everyone@com.

I move my hand. I don't press send.

I move my hand. I don't press send.

The email waits. The trap closes.

I could delete it. But I already said yes.

The yes fell out and landed

somewhere I can't reach anymore.

So I sit here, cursor blinking,

and I don't press send, because

sending it means it's real, means

I have to live with the answer,

means the prayer got what it asked for.