The Open Door

There's a door in your home that you keep an eye on. It's the one they could leave through. You wouldn't admit that. But you always know whether it's shut.

You'd never call it a lock. You call it caring. You check in. You make yourself needed. You say yes before they've even asked. Just to be safe.

One more favor they didn't ask for. One more question about where they've been. One more thing they could never manage without you. Each one is small. Each one clicks.

And it works. They stay. Evening after evening, they're right there. The door has never been safer. You should be happy now.

So why doesn't it feel like love? Because you can't tell anymore. Are they here because they want to be, or because the door won't open? You built something to keep them, and it took away the one thing you wanted to know.

There's only one way to find out. And it's the thing you've been avoiding the whole time. Your hands will shake. That's alright.

The door is open. Nothing is holding anyone. And they look up, and they stay right where they are. Now it means something. Being chosen only counts when leaving is possible.

It's a risk. They might walk through it one day. That would hurt, and you would survive it. But a locked door was never going to tell you that you're loved. Only an open one can. Which lock would you open first?