I pause over your number in my phone. The soft light from the screen is like a beacon in the crushing dark of the street outside the liquor store. I take a sip. I just want to call you and say I was wrong, I never meant to do those things, I just want to see you again. You’re happy with him, though. I know that. You should be happy, deserve to be happy. I’m no good for you.

A thousand thoughts rush through my head. I should call someone and go home. I just want to call you. Would you even answer? It’s three in the morning, you’re probably asleep. I think you’d pick up the phone. I hope you’d answer. I should move on, but I haven’t yet. Maybe I’m just too drunk. I don’t know why I do this to myself.

I stumble to my feet and start walking. I think I’m over you; I’m just lonely. Maybe I’m depressed. I don’t know, how do you tell those things? I should go see a therapist or something. May help with some things. You’d tell me that I should go see one.

Head in my phone, I don’t even see the lights.