There it is on the statement

There it is on the statement:

$9.99

recurring

automatic

since two years ago

when I signed up for something

I watched for maybe three months

and then stopped.

I didn't cancel.

I just stopped opening it.

Let the app sit on my phone

like a bad memory I wasn't ready to delete.

Thirty-six dollars this year

just gone,

bleeding out of my account

in nine-dollar increments,

and I only noticed because

I was looking for something else,

something I'd actually spent money on,

and there it was—

the ghost of a choice I made

in a different season of my life,

the version of me who thought

they had time

to watch streaming shows

about other people's lives.

I could cancel it today.

I could have canceled it last year.

Instead I'm sitting here doing math,

figuring out how many coffee dates

or bookstore visits

or moments of actual living

that money could have bought,

and I'm angry at myself

in the way you only get angry

at someone you thought you could trust

to keep their own life together.

The subscription will charge again

next month.

I know this.

I'll see it.

I'll think about canceling.

And then I won't.