Enclosed

I was on the call when I closed it.

The soft click of the latch catching.

Not loud. Just definitive.

From the inside, the room becomes

a room instead of an open part

of the apartment.

The walls are suddenly closer.

The light from the window

is only the light from this one window.

The air is only the air

that fits in here.

I can hear the call through the speaker—

my voice still talking,

the other voices still responding—

but they're on the other side now.

Muffled. Separate.

Like I've pressed a button

and made myself unreachable

even though I'm still

technically there.

The door is wood. Old wood.

The kind that doesn't seal perfectly,

that lets sound through,

that lets air move back and forth.

But there's something about the closed door

that makes the room feel

like it belongs only to me now,

like I've made a choice

to be alone

even if the isolation is only partial,

only temporary.

I finish the call.

The room is quiet.

I could open the door.

I could step back into

the rest of the apartment,

the rest of the day,

the rest of the expectation

that I'm available.

But I sit on the bed for a while

in the sealed space,

in the smallness,

in the knowledge that

somewhere on the other side

of this closed door,

the world is still happening

without me,

and I've made myself

separate from it.