Page 23 of Returned Mail

Nothing to worry about.

Love you,

Monica

It's a lie, and he knows it. I know he knows it. But neither of us pushes. Because we're both afraid of what happens if we do.

Weeks pass, and the countdown shrinks.

Five months left.

Then four.

Then three.

And finally, for the first time in months, it feels real. Three months. I can survive this. Three months means planning. Three months means homecoming videos on YouTube that make me cry. Three months means us.

The hope returns.

For the first time in weeks, I feel lighter. I clean the apartment. Do all the laundry. Meal prep for the week. Buy new sheets for the bed. Start a countdown calendar on the fridge with little hearts marking each day.

Then his email arrives.

From: George

Subject: Need to talk

Can I call tonight?

Love you,

George

My stomach drops immediately.

We develop instincts. You learn to recognize danger in ordinary things. A delayed call, or an unusual email. A strange tone. And, of course, those three words.

Need to talk.

I spend the entire day sick with anxiety. I can't eat lunch. Can't focus on meetings. My hands shake every time I check my phone. By the time evening comes and my phone finally rings, I'm already crying.

I answer immediately.

“George?” Silence. Well, not complete silence. I could hear him breathing. Heavy breathing. The kind that tells me everything before he says a word. My heart sinks. “No, what now?”

The words leave before he speaks. Before he explains. Before I know. Because somehow, I already do.

“Monica...” His voice cracks on my name.

“Ugh, no.”

His sigh breaks through the connection, and that's enough. Tears burn my eyes. “Mon— we got extended.”

The room disappears. The calendar on the wall with its stupid little hearts is laughing at me right now. The countdown I'd been protecting for months. Gone.

“How long?”

My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like someone else. Someone hollow.