Eight

Your hand on the metal.

Cold. Always cold.

The deadbolt catches the same way,

turns the same angle,

makes the same small sound

like a throat clearing.

One.

You walk away.

You get to the elevator.

Your body knows before your mind does,

that specific pull in your chest,

the tightness that means

you have to go back.

Two.

The lock looks fine.

It was fine the first time.

It will be fine the eighth time.

But there's a space between knowing this

and being able to walk away from it,

and you live in that space now,

in that hallway,

in the repetition of a hand

doing the same thing

over and over

until the doing

becomes the point.

Three.

You think about breaking it.

Just pulling the deadbolt off entirely

so there's nothing left to check,

so your body has no excuse.

Four.

But you don't.

You just keep coming back

to this cold metal,

to this number,

to this specific ritual

that doesn't work

but works anyway,

that never convinces you

but convinces your body

that it's enough,

that you've done it right,

that you can leave now.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Your hand on the metal.

Cold.

Always cold.

Eight.