Page 48 of Returned Mail

The next day, there's another letter waiting for me.

It's ridiculous at this point.

I find it when I come home from work, half hanging out of my mailbox slot like it's trying to escape the metal box and run to the loft itself.

“Of course,” I mutter, pulling it free. “Come on in. Join the club.”

Back upstairs, I put my keys in the dish by the door, drop my bag, and look down at the envelope in my hand. Something feels different about this one. It's the same cream paper. Same careful handwriting. Same return name. But the pen strokes look less steady in places. Like whoever wrote it pressed too hard, then not hard enough.

I slide my finger under the flap.

Then I stop, and my whole body freezes.

“No.”

I pull my hand back like I've touched a hot stove. “Mia, absolutely not.” I put it with the others. Thirteen now. All from the same sender. All to the same woman who no longer lives here. You'd think I'd get used to the sight.

I don't.

That night, while reheating leftovers and pretending not to stare at the drawer, I think about Sebastian. After he picked up his things, we faded out in the most modern, disappointing way possible. No letters. No big final speech. No closure. Just a silence that kept getting easier to maintain.

We did the mature thing, I guess. Or the cowardly thing. Sometimes those look exactly the same.

Maybe that's why these letters bother me. Because this stranger is doing something no one ever did for me. He's trying. Or at least, it looks like he is trying. And maybe that's the problem. I don't know what's inside those envelopes. I don't know if they're apologies, excuses, grocery lists, or emotional manipulation written in beautiful handwriting.

I know nothing.

Except that someone keeps sending pieces of paper into a place where no one is reading them. And there's something about that I can't stop thinking about.

I dry my hands on a dish towel and reach for my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over Monica's number. No. That's pointless. She made it very clear where she stands.

I open my notes app instead and type…

Note to self: Do not read a random soldier's mail. That is illegal, invasive, and probably a great way to spiral into someone else's tragedy.

I stare at the screen. Then, because apparently I enjoy arguing with myself, I add…

Also, if you were going to read it—which you are not—would it really be the worst thing in the world if it meant making sure he isn't sending pieces of himself into an actual black hole?

I stare at the question for a long time. Then I lock my phone and drop it on the counter. The drawer stays closed.

For now.

Chapter Fourteen

Mia

The letters keep coming.

Not every day. Which I think it would be easier. It would be predictable, and I could form a routine out of it. Instead, a new letter arrives every three or four days. Sometimes five. Never perfectly spaced, but often enough that I've started noticing the gaps.

I hate that I notice the gaps.

This evening, I was halfway up the stairs when I realized I forgot to check the mailbox. I stop. One hand on the railing. My work bag hanging from my shoulder. For a second, I consider continuing upstairs. I made it through an entire day without checking. That should count for something.

Then I turn around.

“Pathetic,” I mutter.