A car idles at the corner ahead, and I change direction without thinking.
A man steps out onto his porch to smoke, and I take the next turn.
Everything becomes something to avoid. Every light. Every open window. Every stranger’s glance.
By the time I reach my apartment building, my fingers are numb around my shoes and my legs are shaking so bad I can barely climb the steps.
I fumble the key three times before I finally get the door open.
Once it clicks shut behind me, I collapse against it, sliding to the floor as the adrenaline finally lets go.
I’m soaked in sweat. My chest rises and falls in shallow, panicked bursts.
I’m safe, but my body doesn’t believe it yet.
I sit here on the floor for what feels like hours, with my back pressed tight against the door as if holding it closed
