Page 40 of Returned Mail

“Ms. Harris?”

I look up. The leasing manager is holding out a pen. I already have one in my hand. “Sorry.”

She smiles politely.

“I just need your signature on the last page.”

I sign. Done. She gathers the papers into a neat stack.

“Once everything is processed, you’ll receive a digital copy. The new tenant’s move-in date is already confirmed.”

“Good.”

“Would you like us to contact you directly if there are any issues with the unit?”

“No.” The answer comes quickly.

She pauses.

I soften it. “I’ll be abroad. Email is best for anything that legally requires my attention. Otherwise, use the existing property contact instructions.”

“Of course.” She closes the folder. “That should be everything.”

I stand and shake her hand. Her grip is slightly damp. I resist the urge to wipe my palm against my skirt.

Outside, my heels strike the pavement in quick, sharp beats. The day is too bright for how tired I feel. Sunlight catches the windshield of the sedan next to mine and flashes directly into my eyes. I blink against it.

My phone buzzes.

Need final deck before noon. Also thinking I should handle opening.

I stare at the message.

Then type, The opening is already finalized. I’ll be presenting it as planned.

I unlock my car.

The breakup letter is in my bag. I wrote it three times. The first was too blunt. The second left too much room for hope. The third said what needed to be said. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

George always hated the way I talked about communication. Clear communication. Direct expectations. Defined outcomes. He said I made relationships sound like performance reviews.

Maybe I did.

But what else was I supposed to use with a man who could tell a room full of soldiers exactly what to do in a crisis and still look at me like I’d asked him to translate another language when I said, Tell me what’s wrong?

I reach into my bag and pull out the envelope.

I take the page out and read it one last time.

George,

I’ve rewritten this more times than I want to admit, and every version ends in the same place.

I stop. My fingers tighten slightly around the paper.

Then I keep reading.

I can’t do this anymore.