What I Almost Did

By Sini Jerome

I said yes in the group chat.

Replies flood in—

too many emojis,

someone already asking what I'll wear.

I pulled clothes from the cupboard,

held them up to the mirror,

imagined myself there.

For an hour, maybe two,

I believed it.

Then something shifted.

Not a thought exactly—

more like a weight,

settling in my chest,

pressing down.

I checked the time.

Checked the weather.

Looked up the route even though I know it.

Told myself: I can still go.

Instead, I cleaned.

Scrubbed the sink until it shone.

Replied to emails I'd been ignoring for days.

Folded laundry that could have waited.

The flat grew spotless

as the night slipped out of reach.

An hour before I'm supposed to leave,

I open the chat.

Type: "Really sorry, something came up."

Delete it.

Type: "Not feeling well."

Delete it.

Type: "Sorry, can't make it."

Send.

Three replies:

"No worries!"

"Feel better!"

"Next time!"

I send back a thumbs-up.

Even my thumb felt weighted,

pressing send.

Was I ever going to go?

I don't know anymore.

I wanted to—I think I did.

But somewhere between yes and the door,

I lost myself.

It's not the event.

It's the space between home and there—

the exposure, the effort,

the chance that I'll say the wrong thing,

look the wrong way,

be too much or not enough.

It's easier here.

Lonely, but predictable.

The ache of staying in

is sharper than the fear of going out,

but at least I know its shape.

I tell myself: next time.

But I've said that before.

I've stopped setting reminders.

Stopped saying yes so easily.

The invitations still come,

but slower now.

Soon, maybe,

they'll stop asking.

And I won't know

if that's relief

or exactly what I was afraid of.

By Sini Jerome