Sean Lee

Third Place: Nonfiction

“The Red Exit Sign” 
by Sean Lee
12th grade, Ridgewood High School

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It was one of those multipurpose basement rooms—white tile floor, fluorescent lights, plastic chairs that scraped too loudly against the ground. We’d met there before, as part of the student group we both joined sophomore year. Bible studies, game nights, that awkward karaoke evening. So many beginnings had happened in that room, but I didn’t realize until later that endings need space, too.

You sat across from me. Not too far, but miles away from when we used to be glued together, sharing everything. There was no yelling. No tears. Just pauses between words. You said things like, “I don’t want to hurt you,” and “Maybe we’ve both known this for a while.” I said, “I get it,” and “I guess we changed.” And we both knew those weren’t just words—they were soft landings for something we couldn’t stop from falling.

As you talked, I kept looking at the red EXIT sign above the door. It was the only light in the room that didn’t flicker. It was just a sign. A convenient mess of plastic and wire, its colors vibrant due to some code about safety.

But in that moment, it was salvation. That red glow—steady, silent—became the anchor in a space where everything else felt untethered. I fixated on it, like maybe if I stared long enough, it would offer direction. Or relief. It was a false idol made real by my yearning for time to flow again. That I didn’t have to stay and carefully rip the threads out of our hearts together so that the imminent scar stays small. I could just go, you would get the message, and we could just leave each other and move on with our lives.

I didn’t leave.

I stayed until you stood up. Until your footsteps echoed and the door clicked shut behind you. I stayed in the folding chair with my hands clenched around the edges, the red light still pulsing above. I wanted to cry, or more like, I felt as if I had to cry. But instead, I left.

After that night, I saw that red glow everywhere—in school hallways, parking garages, even the corner of my church sanctuary. Each time, I remembered sitting in that room, watching someone walk away while I tried not to break. Each time, I wondered if it was easier being the one to leave than the one to stay.

At first, it haunted me. Exit signs meant loss. Abandonment. A scarlet mark that I almost took the cowardly path out. That awful stillness after something ends but before anything new begins. What was once salvation turned into shame and a reminder that nothing lasts.

I avoided them without realizing it. I’d walk around buildings differently. Sometimes, I’d shift where I stood without thinking, moving slightly so that the sign wasn’t in my line of sight. Other times, I’d keep my head low walking past. I never told anyone. It felt too small to explain to my friends, and it was too small for them to notice.

There was something about that red, how it hummed quietly in the corner of my vision that made me feel like I was back in the room again—back in the chair, back in the pause between words, waiting for something to be over.

But memory isn’t static. It grows and shifts with you.

Months passed. I joined new things, met new people. Not to replace, but to keep going.

I started to think about how exits aren’t just about endings. They’re also built for safety. For moving on. For getting out when you need to—not to run away, but to survive. To breathe again.

It took me a while to stop avoiding them.

Eventually, I found myself in another hallway—not the same building, not the same kind of night—but there it was again, glowing in the corner: EXIT. I didn’t flinch this time. I just stood there, staring at it for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the lights and the faint sound of someone laughing behind a closed door. I didn’t feel broken anymore. Just tired. But clearer.

For the first time, that red light didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like a reminder—that leaving isn’t always about giving up. Sometimes it’s just the next thing you do. And that’s what I did. I turned and walked through the door. Not to escape.

Just, ready.

That red sign didn’t push me to leave that night. But in time, it taught me that I could. That I’m allowed to walk out of spaces where I don’t belong anymore. That love can be real and still not last. And that staying is not always strength—sometimes, leaving is.

And I remember walking out of that basement room.

Not right away. But eventually.