Page 60 of Returned Mail

That sounds too cold, way too clean. It sounds like a legal notice, so I add another line.

I am so sorry you are finding out this way.

The words blur a little, but I blink hard to keep going.

I don't know what happened between you and Monica. I only know what I read, and I know that doesn't give me the whole story.

But I also know you kept writing because you did not know she had left. I didn't think it was right to keep this from you.

I still have the letters you sent to her. I didn't want to send them anywhere without knowing what you wanted done with them.

I hope you are safe.

I'm sorry.

—Mia

Well, that was incredibly painful to write, awkward as fuck, and now I’m scared. There is no good sign-off for “Sorry I invaded your privacy,” and for “your girlfriend or fiancée left you.” So that’s all I can say.

I read the whole thing twice.

This is wildly inappropriate. Definitely too much and not enough at the same time. But it is honest. That is the only thing I have to give him.

I fold my letter carefully. Then I pick up Monica's. I slide both pages into a clean envelope. Addressing it feels surreal. I copy the return address from his letters, checking every number twice.

To: George Hale

My handwriting looks strange beneath his name. Like it doesn't belong there. Because it doesn't. The universe should not let strangers have this much impact on each other. But here we are.

I seal the envelope and smooth the flap with shaking fingers. Then I put on my shoes before I can change my mind and go downstairs to the outgoing mail slot in the lobby. I stand in front of it for a full minute.

A woman walks past me carrying a yoga mat and gives me a polite smile. I smile back like I am not holding the emotional equivalent of a grenade. When she disappears into the elevator, I look down at the envelope.

“This is the right thing,” I whisper.

I wish I believed it completely. I slide the envelope into the slot. It disappears with a soft whisper of paper. That's it. Back upstairs, I gather George's letters and place them back in the wooden box. Then I close the lid. For the first time, the box feels less like a secret, and more like evidence.

Off what? Still no clue.

Today at work, I forget an entire sentence halfway through saying something. My coworker blinks at me across the conference table. “Mia?”

“Sorry.” I look down at my notes. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought.”

That happens three more times before noon.

By one, I send my boss an email saying I don't feel well and need to finish the day from home. It isn't a lie. I don't feel well. I feel like I swallowed someone else's heartbreak, and it's sitting beneath my ribs, heavy and impossible to digest.

At home, I check the mailbox.

Empty.

Of course it is. He couldn't possibly have even received the letter yet and sent one back. I know that. Mail takes time. Military mail probably takes even more time.

Still, I check.

The next day, I check again. Then the next. Then the next.

At first, I tell myself it's responsibility. I sent the letter. I should watch for a response. That is normal. Not that anything about this is normal, but I like to keep telling myself that.