I’d have to hire movers. There was too much furniture to do it on my own now.

I’m like the flat half inch of soda at the bottom of the can. I stare at my fridge. At some point during our lazy spin around the sun, my fridge that still hums went from bare to covered in a year of memories.

The menu for me and Wyatt’s favorite Chinese place hanging from the Dorothy-magnet from the Golden Girls set Jackson bought me. Rose was hanging a polaroid of the three of us. Movie tickets, friendship bracelets, more Polaroids.

My fridge had never been covered before. And now I was going to leave.

I pick the Polaroid of just me and Wyatt. I’m grinning at the camera, head tilted back in pure joy, but he wasn’t looking at the camera, he was looking at me. Smiling at me. Loving me.

It was my favorite picture, and now…

I turn towards the couch and Miller is curled up on the unicorn plushie Wyatt won me at the fair. His hammer is still sitting on my bookshelf even though I tell him to grab it every time he’s here.

He’s imprinted on my space, on my life. It won’t matter how far I go, he’s a part of me in a way no one has ever been.

Why couldnt he just pick me? Do I need to give him more time? Am I being unfair?

Mom would say yes. That I’m too picky, too demanding.

I shouldn’t subject Wyatt to that anyway. He’ll barely remember me by next summer. The next vacationer will come through, or a new girl looking for her fresh start will take my place, my apartment, my Wyatt.

Remembering Wyatt will be my Sisyphean task. I’ll get to the top of the hill, think I’ve moved on but I’ll always keep tumbling back.