When I Called You Mine

"I've always had a problem letting go of things," I say, playing with the cigarette-burned hole in my sofa.

"Is that why you still talk to me?" she asks.

I pause to think for a moment. The answer is so obvious, yet she asks it anyway. Of course, it is. My inability to move on is why I dial the same number every single day. Yet at the same time, I feel like maybe I'm starting to let go. Maybe talking to her is actually helping me get over everything: helping me not hate work so much, actually take care of myself. I look at my kitchen, clean for the first time in a year and nod. Talking is helping, but I don't tell her that.

"Yeah," I lie, because saying I don't need her anymore is harder to do.