I keep rehearsing the ending
in my head.
Curtains drawn,
silence after.

The thought comes easy,
like muscle memory,
like checking the lock twice
before leaving.

I sketch exits
on the margins of days,
erase them,
then draw again.

But each time,
something small holds me,
a crack in the wall
letting in morning,
a voice on the line,
the sheer weight of unfinished hours.

So I stay.
Unsteady, unwanted by myself,
but still here.
Still rehearsing,
never closing the scene.