Page 54 of Returned Mail

He also told me I look like “a divorced raccoon with authority issues,” so clearly morale is thriving.

I laugh again.

This time, it hurts, because the next line hits me…

I wish I could hear your voice tonight.

There was no buildup, no warning, no nothing. It was just there.

I set the letter down, and for a minute, I just listen to the rain. I don't know this man. I keep reminding myself. I don't know him. I know selected sentences from letters he wrote to someone else. That is not the same thing. That should matter. It does.

It also doesn't stop me from keeping reading.

The letters keep changing.

Not all at once.

That's the worst part. If the first one had been desperate, I might have stopped. Maybe I would've felt too guilty and put everything away. But the shift is gradual. I can see how he stops the jokes, stops sharing details…

What I see now is concern, uncertainty, then something close to fear.

Mon,

I haven't heard from you in a while.

I'm telling myself that's mail being mail.

If you wrote and I haven't gotten it, I'm sorry. I hate the idea of you thinking I'm ignoring you.

I'm not.

The next letter is worse…

Still nothing today.

It's probably delayed.

That's what everyone keeps saying.

Mail's weird. Mail's backed up. Mail's coming.

I'm trying to believe them.

Then the other one…

I know you're busy.

I know work gets bad.

I know I left things rough between us.

I know a lot of things that should make me feel better and don't.

I read that line three times. Then I put the page down and press my fingers against my eyes. The rain has softened outside. The loft is dimmer now.

I look at the letters spread across the coffee table.

Open envelopes, unfolded pages. George's handwriting everywhere. The guilt hits so suddenly I almost stand. I did this. No one made me do it. Monica didn't hand me these. George didn't ask me to understand him. I opened the box. I opened the envelopes. One by one. And now I know things I have no right to know. I should stop.