Page 124 of I Hope This Finds You Well

The second thing I should say is: thank you. You warned me that my job was on fragile ground, helped me, and called me on my bullshit. I hope you got to see your own bullshit that way. I mean that sincerely and kindly...

We put my mom in hospice a few days ago. Her cancer is too far gone, so we’re just making her comfortable now. All the doctors were surprised she held on this long. I truly believe she did because of the joy meeting you and planning something with your mom gave her. I came clean. About everything. And you were right. She said that she was still proud of me and would always love me.

Also, you’ll be happy to hear that I told Gregory to shove it. He told me I couldn’t take more PTO to be with my mom due to the staffing shortages as they enact layoffs. Motherfucker really triedit. I walked out. I’m interviewing for a better job at VCV Games (been searching since the day we made our deal). It’s a bit of a pay cut, but there’s room to grow. I wasn’t happy at Supershops for a while. But you were right, I should have told people what was going on with my mom. Rhonda was really supportive when she found out. She was the only one to send flowers to the hospital, and she even stopped by with muffins.

If you ever want to grab a latifeh or whatever as ex-fiancés and real friends, let me know. Message me on Instagram. I promise I’ll answer this time.

Armin

I put the page down as tears well. I blink and they fall. They fall for all the good in the world that found me—the goodness in people I got to see. I was lucky, and I took too long to realize it.

But there’s a tinge at the back of my mind that presses.

It’s curiosity. A wondering.

I’ve had only two therapy sessions so far and still haven’t quite worked through all the mess that’s woven so deep inside of me, so maybe it’s natural I still wonder about Caitlin: if she’s posted some bullshit from the office, gotten that document lead promotion, went for eggs with Kyle... if she’s okay—any of it will help.

I pull out my phone, open Instagram. And Caitlin hasn’t posted shit. And a tightness builds up. It’s like I need to see some proof she still exists.

But watching people without them wanting me to doesn’t work. I know what I really need.

I hitblockand close the app. It feels like a tidy ending for her and me after everything.

I exhale and gather the colleague letters back into their envelope and toss them into a box that is destined for my parents’ house. The envelope lands right on top of the yearbook. The realization is like a rush. I need to close another door.

I pick up the yearbook and take it to my bed. I haven’t opened it in years. I’m not even sure why I took it with me when I moved out ofmy parents’ house. But when I flip it open, it automatically falls on the only page I ever looked at. The faded picture beneath the words “In Memoriam”stares back.

And I speak.

“I’m so sorry I’ve kept you in a box. That was messed up of me.” The tears tumble as my voice shatters. “But what else did we expect? Your death was too awful. Where was I supposed to put the pain? Where was it supposed to go once it filled me up?” I take a heavy breath. “I should’ve said goodbye. I’m so sorry I never could. But I can’t keep holding on to you like this forever.”

A heaving sob pulls and twists from the deepest part of me. I stroke my hand over her face, but it’s just a picture.

“Goodbye.” I close the book, crumble into my mattress, and finally, I let the pain flow out of me.

I let it drown me.

Hours later, I peel myself up, fragile but standing. I’m finally taking the flyers down to the basement recycling center, when Miley’s mom comes marching up the stairs in a rush. She’s typing on her phone and barely registers me, standing there in my partially marinated sweats. I was planning on showeringaftergoing to the dumpster room.

We don’t even make eye contact as she approaches the doorway, and that should be that. It really should.

Which is why I’m so confused when I step closer and the words that come out of my mouth are “How was Miley’s birthday?”

She stills as her head turns to me. “Sorry, what?”

A legitimate question. None of my business. Except I think of Miley’s shoulders dropping. I think of her alone on her birthday, and I just want to make sure she got a cake or something.

I lighten my tone. “Miley was super excited to be turning thirteen. Did you guys do anything fun?”

She looks directly at me. “Yes, I got her a—I’m getting her a toy she wanted.”

Maybe it’s because it’s too vague an answer, or maybe it’s because Istill don’t know how to keep to myself—a recorded fact—but I say, “Glad her day was special. She’s such an awesome kid or I, guess, teenager.”

But the tears form in my eyes. I try to blink them away and choke down whatever kind of sob presses my throat. I’m freaking crying at a neighbor in the hallway. I should’ve stayed in—I’m still too fragile.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Her smile is pure discomfort, but something behind her eyes shifts and she says, “No, it’s true. She is.” She then passes me, making a show of stepping around me more than required—which, fair.