Page 29 of Returned Mail

Things are tense here. You’ve probably seen some of it on the news. Mostly we’re okay. I’m okay. Bruises. Nothing serious.

I’m tired, Mon.

I stop.

My hand tightens around the pen, then I keep going.

Not just from the work. Tired in that deep way. The kind you don’t sleep off.

I keep thinking about the apartment. The way the light hits the living room in the evening. You standing by the window pretending you don’t care about the sunset even though you always stop to look at it.

My throat tightens.

I used to picture her reading these letters there. I could see it so clearly once. Lately, when I try to picture her, her face won’t stay still in my head. I look back at the page.

I try to picture you there when things get bad.

The pen stops.

It helps.

I stare at the lie, then scratch it out. One hard line through the words. Enough that she’ll still be able to read them if she looks.

I write beneath it.

It used to help.

That one stays.

A drop of sweat lands on the page, smearing the ink. I wipe it away with the side of my hand, leaving a gray streak behind. The generator coughs again. The light flickers, but I keep writing.

I know things were rough between us before I left.

I know I pulled away.

My jaw tightens, and I stop again. There are things I know how to say out loud, but I’ve never been good at this part.

Maybe that’s the problem.

I put the pen back to the page.

I didn’t know how to come home from this and act normal. Didn’t know how to tell you what was in my head without putting it in yours too.

So I stopped telling you anything.

I’m sorry.

My vision blurs slightly. I blink hard and keep going.

I’m sorry for disappearing into myself and expecting you to wait on the other side.

When I get back, maybe we can fix this.

Or at least talk.

I think about her last letter, maybe she was already telling me the truth. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear it.

I lower the pen again.