Page 13 of Returned Mail

I snort.

She keeps scrolling. There are a few decent ones. Nothing special. Nothing that makes me imagine leaving this place. And maybe that's what I'm waiting for. An excuse to stop. Proof that I should stay. That this apartment is still mine. That Sebastian doesn't get to take this too.

Then Lyann stops scrolling. “Wait.”

I look over. “What?”

She turns the laptop toward me. “Look at this one.”

I look at the screen. The apartment is outside the city, but not too far. The rent is lower. The kitchen is small but bright. There are large windows in the living room and a small balcony overlooking trees rather than traffic.

I click through the photos slowly, then I go back to the first photo, and something in my chest shifts. Not excitement. I'm not ready for excitement yet, but hope? Maybe?

“What do you think?” Lyann asks quietly.

I don't answer. I stay silent, just imagining waking up somewhere else. Somewhere Sebastian has never slept. Somewhere his toothbrush won't be sitting beside mine. Somewhere I won't know exactly which cabinet holds his favorite mug or which floorboard creaks beneath his feet. Somewhere there are no photos to take down. No memories waiting around every corner. No version of me still expecting him to walk through the door.

I stare at the apartment, and for the first time since Sebastian left, the future doesn't look like the one I lost. It doesn't look like much of anything yet. But maybe that's the point.

Chapter Four

Mia

The first thing to go into a box is my favorite coffee mug.

It's not important or meaningful, but it’s the biggest one I own, and more caffeine means more happiness. That's been my mantra since… well, since forever.

It's served me better than most of the self-help articles I've doomscrolled through at two in the morning this week. I wrap it carefully in a sheet of newspaper, an actual physical newspaper that Lyann brought over because she's weirdly old-fashioned about some things, and place it in the corner of the box.

There.

First item packed. I stare at it, then at the box, then back at the mug. “This is stupid.”

“What was that?” Lyann calls from the bathroom.

“Nothing.”

It isn't nothing.

The apartment application is still pending. I haven't been approved. I haven't signed anything. Technically, I haven't even decided to move.

But this morning, after spending twenty minutes staring at Sebastian's jacket still hanging over the dining chair, I pulled my lease from the junk drawer and read the section on subleasing three times. Allowed with management approval. So I emailed them. And now my favorite coffee mug is wrapped in newspaper like I'm actually going somewhere.

My phone chimes from the kitchen counter, and my entire body reacts before my brain does. My heart jumps, and my stomach tightens.

For one humiliating second, I think it might be Sebastian.

I hate myself for it.

I reach for the phone anyway, but it’s not him. It’s just an email. The preview shows the name of the apartment complex from the listing Lyann and I found, and my stomach does an entirely different kind of drop.

I open it.

Thank you for your application. Your request is currently under review. We expect to provide a decision within two to three business days.

That's good. It’s not an approval, but it’s not a rejection either. Now, we’re just waiting. Apparently, my life is really committed to that theme lately. I set the phone facedown on the counter and keep packing things.

“What happened?” Lyann calls.