The wall is open—just a thread,
A breath of light where dark once spread.
The girl stands still, her hands at rest,
No claim upon the space she's guessed.
"I want to see you," gently framed,
No hunger sharp, no want unnamed.
"Not past your walls, nor through your fear—
Just you, if you are willing, here."
I:
She stays where shadows fold and bend,
Where quiet loops and does not end.
Her voice arrives, a fragile tone,
"This place is all I've ever known."
"It keeps me safe. It keeps me small.
It asks of me… nothing at all."
"The world outside is wide and loud,
It pulls, it tears, it is too proud."
The glow holds steady, does not creep,
It waits the way the patient keep.
The wall does not decide or move—
It waits for her alone to choose.
The girl nods once, a softened sign,
"I won't cross over any line."
"I'll leave the moment you feel wrong,
Or stay outside, however long."
She does not step. She does not lean.
She keeps the space in-between them clean.
No weight is pressed upon the air,
No silent test of how much she can bear.
"If I am too much," the girl admits,
"If my presence no longer fits—
You may close this and turn away.
I will not follow. I will merely stay."
Her voice holds calm, not laced with fear,
A promise made to disappear
The moment the silence asks her to,
The moment the walls needed too.
I:
"What if I shut this without a sound?"
What if I hide, and no trace is found?"
Her question trembles, soft but true,
Afraid of harm in what she'll do.
The girl exhales, her answer slow,
"Then that is something I will know
Is not rejection, not a slight—
But care for self, a chosen right."
"I won't return to knock or plead.
I'll stay apart if that is what you need."
"Some doors are closed so hearts can breathe.
I will respect that kind of leave."
The glow remains, unchanged in hue,
Not brighter now, not asking too.
The space stays hers—entirely—
No pressure dressed as courtesy.
I:
The silence deepens, folds, aligns.
The wall remembers softer times.
Not danger sensed, nor threat nearby—
Just someone letting her decide.
At last, the opening shifts once more,
Not wide, not fast—just more than before.
A choice not rushed. A boundary kept.
An entry born from consent.