By morning I will have erased all traces that I was ever here.
It's okay, though. I know you won't miss me. You haven't for a while.
I've been packing for the past week. Slowly moving my things away, out of sight. You haven't noticed. I can't say I blame you. I wouldn't have either: I never really unpacked after that first move. Still, it hurts, you know? I've picked up all the little pieces of myself I left lying around, and it didn't make a difference.
Should I leave this picture of us on the mantle? Would you miss it if it was gone? It's not really mine, after all. It's ours, technically.
I suppose the real question to ask would be whether or not I want it.
Maybe I should just leave the frame. That bit really is yours.
My duffel is full. I've got a bus pass and a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket. I've been saving for a while, you see. Or rather, you don't. You didn't notice when I stopped coming home with new books and clothes and things.
You're on the couch now, belly down and snoring. You fell asleep watching TV. I don't think I'll wake you; you'd only get mad that I interrupted.
I made sure to lock all the doors. The windows are closed, the alarm is set. I'm standing in the doorway, looking back at the living room. I tidied up as best I could, though you probably won't notice that, either.
I can feel the chill through my jacket. It's cold out, and getting colder. The sun set quite a while ago. If I'm going to go, I'd better do it soon. The last bus leaves at ten thirty.
I feel like I should do something, though. Kiss your cheek. Write a note. Tell you I love you, tell you goodbye.
Instead, I silently close the door behind me.
Bye, Dad, I think. I'll miss you.