Page 5 of Returned Mail

The first morning after a breakup is always the worst.

Not because I wake up crying, angry, or alone. It's because for three whole seconds, I forget. For three beautiful, ignorant seconds, everything feels normal. I'm warm beneath the blanket. The room is quiet, and sunlight spills through the curtains.

Then, reality creeps in.

Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I reach toward Sebastian's side of the bed and find nothing but empty sheets. My eyes fly open, and I remember the kitchen table conversation, the guilt on his face. A woman from work. Just a few months. I still love you, Mia.

The memory hits all at once, so hard that I suck in a sharp breath. A sob escapes before I can stop it, and I curl onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head as if I can hide from something that has already happened.

He's gone.

Sebastian left me.

After six years, he packed a bag, walked out the front door, and left me standing in the middle of the life we built together. I stayed there on my side of the bed until noon.

Maybe later.

Time feels different today.

Too slow when I'm awake. Too fast when I manage to sleep. I lose entire stretches of it staring at the wall, only to check the clock and realize forty minutes have passed.

Eventually, I force myself to sit.

My head is throbbing, and my stomach feels hollow. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. I should be hungry, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.

I drag myself into the bathroom and stop. His toothbrush is still beside mine. Blue. Slightly crooked in the ceramic cup we bought at some home store three years ago because Sebastian said the plastic one I had was ugly.

I stare at it.

Of all the things that could break me this morning, apparently it's a fucking toothbrush. My hand reaches toward it, but I stop before touching it. People who leave are supposed to take their things.

Aren't they?

They're supposed to clear out drawers and pack boxes. They're supposed to leave empty spaces behind so you understand what happened. Sebastian left his toothbrush beside mine. Like he forgot he might need it, and might come back to pick it up later.

That thought is dangerous enough that I turn away.

I don't brush my teeth, and I don't shower. I walk into the kitchen instead, and somehow that’s worse. His coffee mug is still sitting beside the sink. I stop again.

Jesus Christ.

The stupid thing is chipped near the handle. I've tried to throw it away at least four times, and every time Sebastian pulled it back out of the trash because, apparently, coffee tasted better from that mug. I stare at it now. Just stare. Like somehow it has answers.

His keys aren't in the bowl near the door. His work shoes are gone. But his jacket is still hanging over the back of one of the dining chairs. A phone charger is still plugged into the wall beside the couch.

There are beers he likes in the refrigerator. His cereal is on top of the fridge because he's the only person I know who voluntarily eats plain Cheerios.

Half of his life is gone, but the other half is everywhere.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen and realize I don't know which is worse. Then I go back to bed and cry again.

The second day isn't much better.

Or the third.

Or the fourth, to be honest.

By the fifth, I move to the couch because I can't sleep in our bed anymore. Every inch of that mattress belonged to us. His side. My side. The middle where I always ended up because apparently personal space meant nothing once I was unconscious.