train stations

iii.

Dear W,

I guess I should tell someone why I left like this. I'm not sure if you'll notice I'm gone—with how things have been. I've never been the type to make people do much noticing.

"Gone" is where I belong. Everywhere else. I hope you understand.

Back home, if I can even call it home, I was so small. I was insignificant. In a small town, everyone is supposed to matter. Everyone is supposed to find their place (and stick to it). I did neither of those, and everyone felt it. You know people looked at me the way they did, felt the way they did about me.

The worst of it was that I was trapped. I'm a hamster—or I was a hamster. I was in my little glass container where everyone looked at me, whispering about what a poor, pathetic thing I was while I ran on my wheel, hoping to get anywhere except there.

And while I was sitting in our house the other night with you asleep in the other room, knowing I couldn't bear to sleep in the same room as you, I felt like everything was imploding around me.

I know I've messed up. I know you feel the same as I do—except probably that I was a parasite that wouldn't leave.

I think my leaving is probably the best thing. For both of us.

—Forgotten