The Only Thing Left to Sell

The door had clicked shut. I was still standing in the hallway when I realized the keys in my pocket didn’t matter anymore. The apartment wasn’t mine. The bed wasn’t mine. The silence wasn’t mine to fill. I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a single apple. I ate the apple standing up. It tasted like nothing. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from a number I didn’t recognize. Need company tonight? I stared at the screen. The words didn’t make sense at first. Then they did. I deleted the message. The phone buzzed again. I’ll pay. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The couch in the living room still had my blanket on it. I folded it and put it in a trash bag with the few clothes I had left. The rest of my things—the photos, the books, the dishes—weren’t mine to take. I left them where they were. Outside, the air was cold. I walked to the bus stop and sat on the bench. My hands were empty. My pockets were empty. The only thing I had left was the decision to stand up when the next text came.