Page 4 of Returned Mail

My voice rises as I repeat, “You didn't plan it?”

“Mia—”

“You’ve been cheating on me for months.”

His expression crumples. “I know.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think you do.”

Because if he knew, if he truly understood, he wouldn't be standing there asking for understanding. He wouldn't be looking at me as if he deserved forgiveness.

“I loved you.” The words break apart on the way out. His eyes close, and for the first time, he looks devastated too. But I don't care. Not anymore. Because his devastation doesn't compare to mine.

He chose this. I didn't.

“I still love you, Mia.”

Somehow, that’s the cruelest thing he's said all night. Because what the fuck am I supposed to do with that now? What comfort am I supposed to find in knowing the man who shattered me still loves me? Love is supposed to prevent this. Not survive it.

“Stop.”

His face falls.

“Please stop.” The tears won't stop coming. Fuck. “I don't want to hear it.”

“Mia—”

“I don't want to hear anything else.”

The apartment suddenly feels unbearable. Every corner contains a memory. Every wall. Every picture. Every piece of furniture. Our life. Our future. Our plans. Everything feels contaminated. Ruined.

I turn away from him, walking toward our bedroom, unable to look at him anymore. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then I hear movement. The scrape of a chair, footsteps, a zipper. And I remember the bag by the door.

He's leaving.

This is really happening. This isn't a fight. It isn't something we’re going to sleep on and fix tomorrow. He came prepared to leave. He had already decided before I even walked through the door. I hear him stop behind me.

“I am sorry.”

That sorry feels like an insult now. Useless little words tossed into the wreckage. After a moment, I hear him pick up the bag. Then the front door opens. Closes.

And just like that… he's gone.

The apartment falls silent, completely silent. I stand there for several seconds, or maybe minutes. I don't know. Time doesn't feel real anymore. Nothing does.

Eventually, my knees give out, and I sink onto the bedroom floor. I don't move. I just sit there trying to understand how six years can disappear in a single conversation.

A six-year relationship isn’t supposed to end like this. It’s not supposed to end on a random Tuesday. It's not supposed to end because of “a woman from work.” It's not supposed to end with silence.

It's not supposed to end at all.

But it did.

And as I sit alone on the bedroom floor of the apartment we built together, one terrible truth settles into my chest. The future I'd spent six years imagining no longer exists, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with my life now.

Chapter Two

Mia