Page 56 of Returned Mail

I know that because he writes it at the top of the page. I didn’t notice at first, but now I can see the pattern. I don’t have all the letters, which means some of them reached Monica, some got lost, or maybe they are just out there in a box labeled “returned mail”.

Monica,

Still haven't heard from you.

I know things were rough between us before I left.

I know I pulled away.

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 keep reading…

When I get back, maybe we can fix this.

Or at least talk.

Sit in that stupid kitchen you insisted on painting twice and actually tell each other the truth. No pretending things are fine when they're not.

My eyes move to the kitchen, and I see it, the soft gray, the white, the wood tones. I wonder which shade was the wrong one. I wonder who painted over it. I wonder how many versions of a life can stay inside one room after the people leave.

I don't want to keep feeling like I'm an extra in my own life.

I miss you.

Even if it doesn't feel like I'm allowed to say that anymore.

—George

The page lowers slowly in my hands.

For a long time, I don't move.

I sit surrounded by seventeen opened letters and feel the full weight of what I've done. Then I look at Monica's. It lay there, still sealed, returned, and waiting, but I don't want to open it anymore. That's the strange thing. Before, I wanted the answer. Now I'm afraid of it. Because whatever is inside that envelope, George never got it.

And now I know enough to understand that matters.

I reach for Monica's letter. My hands are steadier this time. Not because I feel calm, but because I've crossed too many lines today for my body to keep pretending this is accidental. The flap is loose at the corner. I slide my thumb underneath.

I open it, and unfold the page. Monica's handwriting is different from his. I start reading.

George,

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

I can't do this anymore.

I stop. “Oh fuck”.

The room goes still around me, and I force myself to keep reading.

I know things between us haven't been right for a long time. I kept telling myself we were going through a hard season. That deployment made everything worse. That when you came home, we would find our way back to each other.

But every time you came home, I found myself waiting for a different version of you.

My anger rises fast. I shouldn’t feel this way. I have no right to feel this angry. Yet, I am. I’m fucking piss at her.