I've had a dream of moving out for three years. It started as just a wish—I looked at my eyes in the mirror and told the man looking back that I was going to leave this place and never look back. Then it became a vision that haunted my sleep. I imagined myself sitting on a porch alone, sipping a cup of tea and listening to the wind. Returning to real life, that glimmer of joy would sink into the floorboards. Soon it became a plan. I started skipping vacations and avoiding expensive restaurants, saving a bit of my paycheck every week. I calculated how long it would take to earn enough for a decent cottage out in the woods and found my move out day. Tomorrow I am leaving it all behind.

When you're moving out, what you bring with you is not as important as what you leave behind. I'm leaving behind my apartment, which sits on the third floor of a small building that looks more like a prison than a house. I'm leaving behind the stacks of files from my job that I was told to finish months ago.

I'm leaving behind my friends. Johnny knocks on my door furiously until I open it, then grins and pounces on me with a large hug. "Dude, it is GOOD to SEE you man!" he says as he hits my back with the power of a train. "How have you BEEN?"

 

"I'm alright," I say as I slide myself out from underneath his arm.

 

"That's great, that's great." Johnny wanders over to my fridge and grabs the first food that catches his eye: the lasagna I was saving for dinner.

 

"Where are we going?" I ask.

 

"Cassius says we're going to the movies." Cassius always makes the plans. He says it's essential to have one planner, because if there isn't someone to call the shots nothing gets done, and that would be anarchy. Cassius is always saying things like that. "C'mon, grab your coat," Johnny says as he wolfs down the last bite left in the container and throws it in the sink.

 

Cassius is waiting in his gray Prius when we go downstairs, holding a book in front of the steering wheel to make sure everyone passing by can see it. He's wearing a cashmere sweater and round glasses he admitted to us once he doesn't actually need. Johnny flies down the stairs in front of me and shoves himself into the seat next to Cassius with a hoot. Tomorrow I'm leaving this car behind, and I'll never hear Cassius ask me again if I would "care to join us in a timely fashion" as I slink into the left seat behind him.

When I move out, I'm leaving behind Lea. She sits opposite me, staring out the window to avoid eye contact. Three years ago I asked Johnny to switch seats so we didn't have to sit next to each other anymore, since it was hard enough doing everything together, but he laughed and reminded me how he called eternal shotgun when Cassius first got the car. It's better now than it was then. The sight of her doesn't make my stomach drop like a cannonball and send my thoughts reeling into the past. We've started having normal conversations again (or as normal as they ever were with her). But she hasn't looked me in the eyes for three years.

 

I've known them all since high school. We skipped class together whenever Johnny was bored or when Cassius decided that he could learn better "outside the constraints of that stifling bureaucratic prison." Back then I didn't mind Johnny and Cassius as much when Lea was there. She could always tell what I was thinking just by looking at me. When Cassius started on one of his long explanations about the faults of communism, she would grab my hand and announce that we were going to get some water. Sometimes Johnny talked about how fun it would be to wrestle with me, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder, and she feigned terror at the thought of violence until he relented. I could never keep a lie from her, but I never tried. It felt good to have someone else knowing my thoughts so I didn't have to. 

 

Cassius planned for us to watch some experimental French film he's seen enough times to explain its meaning at us, but when we arrive Johnny insists we see Die Hard again instead, and Cassius relents. Johnny grabs my shoulder and sits me down next to him, saying how excited he is. He grips my knee as Gruber takes his hostages, but then his eyes start to droop and soon he's resting his head against my chest, snoring louder than the movie, and I can't move an inch. I look around at Cassius, frowning to himself as he stares up at the screen, and then Lea, who I know isn't watching it anyways. She turns and looks back at me for the first time in three years. 

 

When I move out, I want to keep Lea's stare. She isn't smiling. She doesn't move or gesture—she almost seems to be looking through me. But I can feel her gaze piercing into my mind even as she grabs another handful of popcorn. She stares into my eyes silently and I think she's seeing me for the first time in three years.

We drive back in silence, and I think Lea looks concerned, but I've learned to not trust what I think. "See you Friday!" Cassius shouts as I get out of the car, and I say "sure" and smile once my back is turned. I can feel Lea's eyes in my back as I walk away.

 

---

I'm packing one bag, or maybe two. I just need my clothes and my toothbrush, a few apples and the granola from above the fridge for the plane. I'm taking an extra coat and an umbrella, a couple books I've been meaning to read and a little journal to write new dreams in. I'll have to get a new hat; I've been wearing Johnny's old baseball cap out of convenience. And of course I'll need a new bed and new closets and a new couch to replace the old blue one that sits in my living room now, collecting dust. I used to sit on that couch every day with Lea by my side, and we would put the TV on and stare at each other. 

 

I realize that I wish I could take the couch with me.

 

Someone knocks on my door at two in the morning. It's her.

 

"You're leaving." she says. She never says "hello." It's one of the things I first liked about her. 

 

"How did you know?" I ask, but it's a dumb question and she doesn't bother to answer. She could always tell what I was thinking just by looking at me.

 

"Are you going to say goodbye to Johnny and Cassius?"

 

"They'll be fine," I say. 

 

She narrows her eyes at me. If this were three years ago, she would tell me I was wrong by kissing me and pushing me towards the couch. But she just crosses her arms and looks at me for a few seconds.

 

"Are you sure you want to leave?"

 

"Yes," I say, though lying to Lea feels worse than lying to myself. With my eyes I say everything that I wouldn't be able to put into words if I tried. She adjusts her coat and looks away.

 

"Goodbye then," she says.

 

"Goodbye," I say back. Then she's gone.

 

---

When you've moved out, you think most about what you've left at home. I've left behind my towel. I've left behind the dent in my wall that Cassius made when he was thrown across the room by Johnny in one of their little bickering fights. I've even left behind the lighter Lea gave me one Christmas when the wind blew mine right out of my hand.

 

It's quiet out in the woods and I'm shivering on my porch in the wind. Sometimes I expect to suddenly hear Johnny shouting from down the road, "DUDE, where have you BEEN?" and come running over and maybe fall asleep in my lap, warmer than a blanket. Sometimes when I'm reading I can hear Cassius' voice in my head criticizing the literary style, and then it's gone and I don't really feel like reading anymore. But I've left that all behind now. It's just me and the trees, and two bluebirds that flit around on branches and sometimes, when they sit still at the same time, look like eyes staring back at me.