I lost the apartment on a coin flip. My roommate called it in the air, and the quarter landed tails-up for her. I didn't have the fight left to argue.
I packed my things into a borrowed truck and drove two hundred miles to this town. The only place I could afford was a one-bedroom with a view of the prison parking lot.
The plastic lawn chair came from a gas station. It lives on my tiny balcony now. I sit in it after work, watching the lights of the guard towers blink on.
Last night, I watched the season finale of that show we used to binge together. Alone, in that chair, with the crickets and the distant hum of generators.
No one saw me pack. No one saw me flip the quarter. That quiet defeat moved me here, but it didn't break me. I'm still watching. I'm still here.