Page 37 of Returned Mail

I call it hell.

Every morning, I knew exactly how much longer I had.

Seven months. Then six. Five. Four. I stopped checking after that. Or tried to. The waiting became its own kind of grief. Not the dramatic kind you see in movies where someone sobs into a pillow and emerges transformed after a montage. Just quiet. Persistent. A low hum of not yet following me from room to room.

Not yet free. Not yet gone. Not yet mine.

Then, eventually, the number reached zero.

The second time I started looking for an apartment, I expected less.

That helped.

No courtyard flowers. No perfect balcony. No imaginary version of myself drinking wine under string lights. I wanted clean. Affordable. Safe. Preferably far enough away that I wouldn't run into Sebastian while buying toilet paper.

That last one felt important.

I had been searching for almost two weeks when Lyann sent me the listing.

Lyann: Before you say no, just look.

I was standing in the grocery store comparing two brands of pasta sauce.

Me: That sentence has never ended well for me.

Lyann: LOOK.

I opened the link.

The first photo was a loft. High ceilings. Warm wood floors. A kitchen in soft grays, whites, and wood tones. Then the living room. And the window.

I stopped scrolling.

It stretched almost from floor to ceiling, looking out over the city in one direction and the freeway in the distance, with a line of trees beyond it.

The place was beautiful. Which immediately made me suspicious.

Me: What's wrong with it?

Three dots appeared.

Lyann: Why does something have to be wrong with it?

Me: Because I have pattern recognition.

Lyann: Two-year sublease. Current occupant is relocating abroad.

I stared at the screen.

Two years. Absolutely not.

Me: No.

Lyann: You looked for four seconds.

Me: Two years, Lyann.

Lyann: And?