Page 47 of Returned Mail

Me: Like actual handwritten letters. There were a few when I moved in, and now they keep arriving.

Lyann: Okay… and?

Me: The previous tenant told me to trash them, but idk. It feels wrong.

Lyann: Cold. Are they from an ex? Brother? Secret husband?

Me: I don't know. Maybe an ex-partner? I want to read them. Is that bad?

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Lyann: I mean… legally? Yes.

Me: Great. Helpful.

Lyann: Emotionally? Also maybe yes.

Me: So I shouldn't.

Lyann: Correct.

Lyann: But you are absolutely thinking about it.

Me: I hate you.

Lyann: Don't tell me if you open them. I don't want to be subpoenaed. But if you find out he's a tragic lover, I reserve the right to know eventually.

I set the phone down and take another sip of wine.

Outside the window, the sky is starting to soften into warmer tones. Cars move along the freeway in the distance, tiny and quiet from up here. I curl my feet under me and let my thoughts wander in the direction I've been pretending they don't want to go.

Who writes letters anymore?

Emails, sure. Texts, obviously. But pen on paper feels intentional. Someone had to sit down, write the words, fold the paper, seal the envelope, send it. That doesn't mean the letters are romantic. It doesn't mean George is good. It doesn't mean Monica is cruel.

It means nothing, technically.

Still, the memory of Monica's voice crawls back in. Anything from George can be discarded. It bothers me how easy that sounded for her. How final. Maybe I'm projecting.

Actually, I'm definitely projecting.

I'm the kind of person who struggles to throw away birthday cards from people I barely talk to anymore. I still have a shoebox somewhere full of old notes, ticket stubs, receipts from good days, and random scraps of paper that mean absolutely nothing to the universe and too much to me.

I remember the way people sign their names. I get attached to handwriting. So yes, okay, maybe I'm predisposed to care too much. But this still feels… off.

I finish the first glass of wine slowly, feeling the edges of the day soften. Then I stand, stretch, and wander back into the kitchen without really deciding to.

The drawer is right there.

I open it.

The stack still looks small, but somehow it feels heavy. I pick up the envelopes and fan them out like playing cards. They look harmless. Almost. The return address tells me enough to know he's military. I stare at the careful handwriting. A thought slides in before I can stop it. What if he thinks she's getting these?

“Nope.” Not my business.

Really, truly, aggressively not my business.

I close the drawer, pour myself more wine, and head back to the couch.