"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.
"So why did you ask me out?" I asked him. We were enjoying our food and small talking but I genuinely wanted to know.
"My mom told me before she died to marry the woman who you can call your best friend." He told me. I started to blush.
"That's really sweet Ty" I said to him.
"I have a question for you too though," he said. I was chewing so I nodded for him to continue. "Did you only go on a date with me because of me helping you after. . ." He asked. I was hoping he wouldn't ask that.
"The week before that night, I couldn't get you out of my head. So I started telling myself that I didn't need a partner because I am so successful on my own. After that night, with you helping me be okay, I realized that you are the partner I didn't need but the one I WANTED." I said to him.