Three Seconds

The signal hits 3 and I stop.

I know I won't make it. I can feel it in my body,

the thing that knows the difference

between possible and not yet.

Around me, people make their choices.

Some run. Some walk faster.

Some, like me, just stand at the edge

and watch the numbers tick down,

red and arbitrary, telling us

what's safe, what's possible,

what we're allowed.

I haven't moved. My coffee is still hot.

My bag is still on my shoulder.

I am still here, watching traffic

slide past like it's not trying to kill me,

like it's just doing what traffic does—

existing in the space

I'm supposed to cross.

The light changes. The signal resets.

I'm not sure I'm going to move.

I'm thinking about the futility of it—

how the numbers are meaningless,

how I'm just accepting the red,

how I've accepted so many reds,

so many 3s that meant stop,

so many moments where I stood

at the edge and waited for permission

to move forward.

And sometimes I don't even get that.

Sometimes I just accept that I'm stopped,

that this is where I'm supposed to be,

that there's a number counting down

somewhere that says so.

The light changes again.

I think about crossing.

I think about standing here forever.

I think about how easy it would be

to just accept the red, to stop

trying to understand the futility,

to let the numbers tell me what to do.

But I step off the curb.

I cross.

I don't even know why.