The morning I left Bethany's apartment, I waited until I heard her alarm clock shut off.
For a few seconds, I stood outside her bedroom door with my hand raised.
Part of me wanted to knock.
Part of me wanted to thank her properly.
Part of me wanted to apologize.
Instead, I lowered my hand.
I couldn't do it.
Not because I was angry.
Because I wasn't.
I was ashamed.
Bethany had given me a place to stay when I had nowhere else I was willing to go. She listened when I needed someone to listen. She fed me. Encouraged me. Tried to help me find work. Tried to help me find myself.
And I had rewarded her by becoming another problem she couldn't solve.
The thought made my stomach twist.
So instead of waking her up, I found a notepad in the kitchen and wrote the only thing I could think
