The Line Between

The hallway was dark.

The bathroom was darker.

I stood at the edge

where the wood frame met tile,

one foot before the line,

one foot after it,

not crossing,

not entering,

just standing

in the space between.

I don't know why I couldn't move.

My body knew the answer

but wouldn't tell my mind.

The light switch was three steps away.

Three steps through the dark.

Three steps over the threshold.

I couldn't take them.

I stood there instead,

half in, half out,

feeling the temperature change

where the tile began,

feeling the edge of something

I wasn't ready for,

something I didn't understand,

something about crossing

that made my body lock.

The line was so thin.

The doorframe catching

what little light came from the hallway,

a thin white edge against the darkness.

I could have stepped through.

The bathroom wasn't dangerous.

There was nothing on the other side

that would hurt me.

But something in me knew

that crossing meant

something.

Meant entering.

Meant leaving the hallway.

Meant being inside the dark

instead of standing at the edge of it.

I stepped back.

Left the light off.

Went somewhere else.

The bathroom stayed empty.

The threshold stayed uncrossed.