Saturday Afternoon

Lucy stood in the kitchen long after the coffee had gone cold, the morning light slanting in through the blinds and striping the floor like a quiet accusation. The decision had already been made—signed, sent, irreversible in the way only ordinary choices ever are—but her body hadn’t caught up to that fact yet. Her chest still felt tight, like she was waiting to be called into a room where someone else would decide if she had chosen correctly.
On the surface, it looked sensible. Practical, even. The kind of decision people nodded when you explained it, the kind that sounded responsible when spoken out loud. Lucy had told herself all the right things while making it: This is safer. This makes more sense. This is what people do when they grow up. She had repeated those sentences until they almost felt like truth.
Almost.
What unsettled her wasn’t fear of failure exactly—it was the quieter dread that she might succeed at the wrong thing. That she would wake up years from now having done everything right according to the rules, and still feel the same hollow question pressing against her ribs: Was this ever what I wanted?
She tried to remember the moment she’d clicked “confirm,” the brief pause when the screen asked if she was sure. Her finger had hovered there, just long enough for another version of herself to flicker into view—the Lucy who chose differently, who accepted the uncertainty, who risked embarrassment or instability or the possibility of being wrong in a louder, more obvious way. That Lucy looked tired but alive, eyes bright with something dangerously close to hope.
Then the confirmation went through. The screen changed. The moment passed.
Now, standing alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic, Lucy wondered if caution had disguised itself as wisdom. She wondered if protecting herself had come at the cost of betraying herself. The world hadn’t shifted when she made the choice—no thunder, no sign—but inside her, something felt slightly misaligned, like a picture frame knocked crooked on the wall.
Still, she told herself, uncertainty didn’t automatically mean mistake. Growth, she knew, often felt wrong before it felt right. Or maybe that was just another comforting phrase people used when they were trying to live with regret.
Lucy wrapped her hands around the cold mug and closed her eyes. She didn’t know yet whether this decision would lead her somewhere steady or somewhere small. All she knew was that she would have to keep living inside it long enough to find out—and that, more than anything, scared her.
But when she opened her eyes, she took a breath anyway. If this wasn’t the right choice, she promised herself, she would notice. And if the day came when she knew—truly knew—it was leading her away from who she was meant to be, she would find the courage to choose again.