Threshold

Every doorway is a mouth that swallows you whole, spits you out different— older or stranger or less sure. You stand at the edge, one foot still in the place you know how to breathe, the other reaching into the dark mouth of what comes next. There are no bridges. There are only leaps. The floor drops away and you discover whether you've been flying all along, or only falling with style. This is where the light dies— not all at once, but in the gradient of your crossing, the way your shadow learns to exist without you. On the other side, you become smaller because you fit through the frame, become larger because there's room to unfold.