where the road splits
There’s a kind of torment in being stuck between running and staying. Like standing at the mouth of a forest, unsure if it’s safer to venture into the shadows or remain exposed to the storm you already know.
I’ve spent so much time here, sacrificing hours, days, and pieces of myself that I can’t get back. The weight of that investment feels like a chain, like leaving would make it all meaningless. But staying? Staying feels like holding my breath underwater, hoping I’ll grow gills before the air runs out.
Some nights, I pray for a sign — something big enough to tip the scale. A lightning bolt splitting the sky to show me the path, or even a quiet nudge, just enough to push me one way or the other. Sometimes, I hope for something bad to happen, not because I want the pain, but because it would give me an excuse to leave. To say, “See? This was never meant to be mine.”
But then there are moments when I wonder if the fight is the answer. If staying, clawing my way through the muck, is what I’m supposed to do. What if leaving isn’t freedom but a different kind of trap? What if the new road is just a different kind of lonely?
I look for clarity in the smallest things — in the way the morning light breaks through the window, in the silence that fills the space when I’m too tired to think. I tell myself I’ll know when it’s time to go, but the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be sure.
So, I wait. For a spark, a push, a sign. For something good or something bad. For anything but this quiet confusion that keeps me tethered, standing at the edge of a life I no longer recognize.
