Page 55 of Returned Mail

I really should.

Instead, I reach for the next letter.

Monica,

I keep thinking about what you said before I left.

That I'm good at leaving.

I hated that when you said it.

I still hate it.

But I've been sitting with it.

My old man used to disappear when I was a kid. Weeks sometimes. Then he'd come back and act like nothing happened.

I spent years promising myself I'd never be that guy. Then I grew up and picked a job that puts me on planes.

I know it's not the same. I also know that probably doesn't help when you're the one standing there watching me go.

I go still.

The rain ticks softly against the window. I don't know why that one breaks something open in me, but it does. Maybe because it isn't polished. Maybe because it doesn't ask to be forgiven. Maybe because it sounds like someone finally looking at the damage without trying to step around it.

I wipe under my eye with the back of my hand. “Shit.”

My voice sounds small in the loft.

I keep reading because I can’t stop now. By the time I reach the last few letters, the rain has nearly stopped. Hours have passed. I know because the light has changed completely. The gray morning has turned into a dull afternoon, and the city outside the window looks washed clean and tired.

I haven't eaten. My tea is untouched, my legs are stiff from sitting folded beneath me. There are opened letters across the coffee table, the couch, the floor. A timeline I had no right to build.

The second-to-last letter is shorter, and the handwriting is tighter.

Mon,

Still nothing.

I don't know what to think anymore.

Part of me is scared something happened to you.

Part of me is scared nothing happened.

If you're angry, be angry.

If you're done, say that.

I can survive a lot of things.

I don't know how to survive not knowing.

The room suddenly feels too quiet, and I cover my mouth to prevent myself from crying. It’s not like anyone is going to hear me anyway. But still… I shouldn’t be crying over this.

I reach for the newest letter. The one that arrived last, the one with the shakier handwriting. The one I almost opened days ago.

Letter twenty-four.