Letting Go

Sometimes, it’s as if you’re still here.

I swear I hear your footsteps in the other room when I wake up early enough.

Some days I can even hear the shower running or the television in the living room.

Other days, I trick myself into thinking you’re coming home after a day at work.

I catch myself glancing at the clock occasionally.

It’s a dangerous habit, but I can’t help myself most of the time.

It happened sometimes when you first left, but now I’m driving myself insane with how often it’s happening.

I sit at the kitchen table, fooling myself into thinking you’ll wake up and make coffee before you have to leave.

My phone rings.

I glance at it in vague disinterest, but I don’t answer it.

It’s Victoria.

I haven’t been able to even look at her since I read your book.

I know I’m wrong and being unfair.

But it’s nice to have someone to blame.

Even if you made her promise not to tell me.

Because I can’t blame you.

My phone eventually stops ringing and is replaced by a repeated knocking on the door.

I don’t move.

The knocking gets more persistent.

I stay put.

There’s an odd fumbling at the door before I hear it swing open and a scraping sound.

“Shit!”

I stand up at the voice, walk down the hall, and pause in the doorway at the sight.

Victoria is trying to balance two boxes and shut the door at the same time.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” she says, setting the boxes down carefully.

I don’t even know what to say.

I haven’t seen her since the day of your funeral.

It hurts to look at her, knowing everything I know now.

I look away, and when I catch her eyes again, they’re watery.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out in a sob.

My eyes feel the same, and without much thought beforehand, our arms are wrapped around each other for comfort and mutual grieving.

Without any words, I forgive her.

Because it’s what you would have wanted me to do.