Page 59 of Returned Mail

Too intimate. Too letter-from-a-widow-in-a-war-movie. I toss the page out and start again.

Hi George,

God. No.

That sounds like I'm about to ask him to like and subscribe. I toss that one too.

Okay, page three.

My name is Mia, and I'm⁠—

I stop.

Wait, what am I? Your ex’s subtenant? The stranger living in your old apartment? The person who opened seventeen private letters and then decided that ruining your day from across the world was somehow her responsibility?

None of those feel like appropriate introductions.

I drop my head into my hands. “Fantastic start.” The apartment stays quiet. Unhelpful. I take a sip of coffee, realize it's cold, and make a face.

The truth. That's all I can give him. Not comfort. Not answers. Not a version of this where I come out looking good. Just the truth. I pull another sheet toward me.

This time, I don't let myself stop after the first line.

George,

You don't know me. My name is Mia, and I'm currently living in the loft apartment you shared with Monica.

I pause.

Okay, that’s neutral. Fact-based, and painfully awkward, but not insane.

I keep going.

I found several letters from you after I moved in. At first, I set them aside because they weren't mine. I contacted Monica and asked what she wanted me to do with them. She told me they could be discarded.

My throat tightens. Okay, this is where it starts getting unforgivable and borderline unlawful.

I am sorry to tell you that I didn't discard them. I kept them. And yesterday, I opened them.

I stop writing, and my hand hovers over the page.

There it is. No softening. No excuse. No, I know this sounds strange, or I had good intentions, or please understand. Just what I did. I read the sentence again. I hate it. So I leave it.

You have every right to be angry about that. I know it was wrong. I won't pretend it wasn't.

I sit back and press my fingers against my eyes. For a second, I almost tear this page too. Then I think of Letter Twenty-Four. Still haven't heard from you. I keep writing.

The reason I'm writing now is because a letter from Monica arrived here after being returned by the postal service. It was addressed to you. It was marked “return to sender” and “undeliverable.”

I tried to contact Monica again. She did not respond.

I opened that letter too.

My chest hurts. I swallow and force myself through the next part.

She ended the relationship in that letter. I am enclosing it because I think you deserve to have the words that were meant for you, even if they are painful.

I stop.