Notes About The Poem
Paralyzed by a dual fear; treatment with cold indifference, and entering reality shatters the perfect, safe illusion constructed in the mind.
Double Doors
You mean the world to me, and you don’t even know it. I watch you from a distance, careful never to show it, just a fixture in my daily routine. But to you, I’m a ghost. Someone left unseen.
You’ve never taken a second look, your eyes just pass right by, and honestly, that’s fine. I don't need to catch your eye to know how much you matter, or the weight you hold in my life— you're just a quiet, steady presence when everything else is a mess.
Sometimes you’ll walk through those double doors, fast or slow, and I’ll step ahead to catch the handle, just for a second's glow. Without looking, you say "thank you," mechanical and polite, a tiny, fleeting phrase that somehow makes the afternoon right.
I’ve memorized the rhythm of your schedule by now; the exact moments you walk my way. The faded color of your jacket, the white headphones in your ears, the way you completely shield yourself from the city's noise.
You’re a whole universe contained in a single space, while I'm just standing in the margins.
I wonder what you're looking at when you stare into your phone, if you have a heavy heart, or if you ever feel this alone. I know the way you brush your hair back when you're stressed, and the hurried, focused pace of your everyday tread.
To anyone else, it’s just a mundane, passing scene, but to me, it’s the only part of the day that feels calm.
The world moves too fast, shoving people through the crowd, everyone rushing, the background noise too loud. But when those double doors appear and you walk through, the chaos sort of stops.
I reach out for the handle, pulling back the heavy glass, just to stand there like an idiot and watch your shadow pass. You don't look at me; you look toward the open space, that automated gratitude written softly on your face.
"Thank you," you murmur. Just a habit of a polite mind. You have no idea what a wreck you're leaving behind.
That one syllable stays with me through the night. A small, borrowed comfort.
I’ve rehearsed a thousand times what a normal person says to break the silence between two parallel lines. A simple, "Hey, how's it going?" or some comment on the weather, but the thought of actually speaking brings a sharp, sudden panic.
But I always freeze when it comes to introducing myself to you. I'm terrified that if I do, the magic will undo. I worry you would treat me so much differently than before, and I’d lose this fragile version of you I've come to adore.
It should be simple—just a name, a casual line. But it feels impossible to make that moment mine.
Because right now, you are perfect. An untouched thing. And I don't know what reality would bring. What if I speak and the whole illusion falls apart? What if the real you break my hopeful heart?
Or worse—what if you look at me with pity? And the comfortable silence turns into something awkward. You’d treat me like a stranger who stepped a bit too close, and I’d lose the one thing I value most.
It’s a strange kind of safety, living life behind a wall, where you never get the prize, but you also never withdraw.
It should be so simple to just reach out a hand. But the simplest things are heavy when you're carrying them alone. For now, I’ll keep you hidden in a world you've never known.
And let the double doors close behind you.
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