I lay here, motionless, in this oubliette of decision. The room is black, and the light seeping across my face isn’t quite light at all, just streaks of softer darkness. I am confined to this solitary cell not because of making a wrong choice but because I’ve made no choice at all. There is a knocking on the thick wooden door above my head, and at first I stubbornly don’t want to respond. Everything is so familiar and comfortable and I don’t want to share it with anyone. Nor do I want to leave.

The knocking persists.

Without thinking, I pull back the cold metal latch and stand still with a delicate patience. I don’t push the door open; instead, I simply wonder why it does not open without my intervention. The knocking continues to echo and fill my dungeon, bouncing off each wall and pushing me around as it passes by. I begin to worry in a wretched awareness that the knocking will soon turn into the sound of footsteps walking away. When it does, I realize quickly that there is more to decision than merely arriving at a conclusion. Making a decision requires a determined action as well.

I fumble with the door trying to push it open, surprised with how tight I managed to pull it closed in the first place. Finally, the door opens and I poke my head up through the entryway. Squinting, I see a shadowed figure in a long pink coat dash around the corner at the end of the hallway. I climb out frantically, hardly able to get my footing, and run down the hallway as though I was only chasing one question:

Will she be waiting there for me or is she truly gone?