The envelope sits on the table

The envelope sits on the table

like it's waiting for me to pick it up

and read the number.

I know what it says.

I don't need to open it.

This is the part nobody tells you about—

not the responsibility itself,

but the way you have to carry it alone.

The way there's no one to call

and ask if this is normal,

if this is the price

or if you've made a mistake somewhere

and could still fix it.

The balance in my bank account

is a number I check

like it might change if I'm not looking.

It won't.

This is what adulthood is:

knowing the exact number of your own failure.

Knowing the date it's due.

Knowing that you'll pay it

because there's no one else

and there's nothing else to do.

The envelope is still on the table.

I'm still sitting here.

Neither of us has moved.