Page 6 of Returned Mail

So I drag my oversized blanket into the living room and create a pathetic little nest on the couch. I sleep there every night after that. If sleeping is even the right word. Mostly, I move around. Fall asleep. Wake up. Cry a little. Check my phone. Curl myself deeper into the blanket. Fall asleep again.

And then I repeat.

The worst part is checking the damn phone. I keep looking at it every five minutes because some irrational part of me believes he'll text. That he'll suddenly realize he made a mistake. That he'll tell me he ended things with her. That he'll say he loves me. That he'll come home. I know it's ridiculous.

I know.

But hope is cruel. It survives long after it should, especially when grief is involved. So I keep looking. Keep waiting. Keep hurting myself. Every notification sends my heart into my throat. A promotional email from a store I haven't shopped at in two years. A weather alert. A group chat I forgot to mute.

Lyann, my mother, or some random number asking if I want to sell a house I don't own.

Never him.

One afternoon, I find myself scrolling through six years of photos. Which is a terrible idea.

A catastrophically terrible idea.

And yet, I can't stop.

There we are at twenty-one, standing outside our first apartment off campus, holding paint samples and laughing at something that clearly made us happy back then. I zoom in on his face. Then at mine.

We look so young, so sure.

There we are at twenty-three, covered in sand after a beach trip. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders, my face buried against his neck. I remember that day.

I remember what we ate, him complaining about sand getting into the car. I remember falling asleep against the passenger window on the drive home and waking up with his hand resting on my thigh.

There we are at twenty-four on Christmas morning with matching pajamas, matching mugs, and a fucking matching future. At least I thought so. I stare at every photo searching for clues. Some sign, a warning. A moment when his smile changed. A picture where he stopped leaning toward me. Something in his eyes I should have noticed. But all I see is love.

Or what looked like love, and that’s even worse. Because if I can't trust six years of memories, what the hell can I trust? I should put the phone down. Instead, I end up deep inside my Pinterest account. Another mistake.

A bigger one.

The board is still there.

Wedding Ideas.

I created it two years ago, back when marriage felt inevitable. Back when it wasn't a question of if, only when. I tap it before I can stop myself. Dresses. Flowers. Venue ideas. Long wooden tables beneath string lights. A stupid cake with tiny pressed flowers that I saved because Sebastian once looked over my shoulder and said, That one isn't terrible.

Which, from him, was practically enthusiasm. I stare at the screen. The future version of me who made this board feels like a stranger. She was so certain, so confident, so safe. She had no idea she was collecting ideas for a wedding that would never happen.

I wonder what she'd think of me now.

Curled up on a couch, heartbroken, barely functioning, and alone. The thought makes tears sting my eyes again. I close the app, roll onto my side, and go back to sleep.

Later that night, I found a note on my phone.

Because apparently I haven't suffered enough.

I'm searching for something else. I don't even remember what. My brain is barely working these days. Then I see it.

Future Baby Names.

My breath catches.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

I forgot about that. Sebastian started it years ago. I remember exactly how it happened. We were sitting on the couch watching a movie, and a baby appeared on screen. I made some comments about the name being terrible. He disagreed. I told him his taste in names couldn't be trusted because he'd once suggested naming a dog Kevin.