Page 69 of Returned Mail

My eyes burn. I don’t know if he’s kinda forgiving me or something, but it feels like it.

And you sent Monica's letter.

I wish I could say I didn't know. I think part of me did. Knowing and seeing it written down are different things.

I press the page harder…

There's something about that sentence that goes straight through me. Because I know exactly what he means. Not in the same way, and not with the same history. But I know the difference between suspecting your life has changed and having the proof in front of you.

Everything comes back to me in a flash. I remember Sebastian at the kitchen table, the overnight bag near the door, the moment knowing became real.

So thank you. I would rather know than keep writing to someone who had already left.

I feel relieved that he knows, and relieved that he doesn’t hate me, at least not as much.

You said you still have my letters.

Keep them for now. I'm not ready to decide what happens to them.

My fingers tighten around the page. That’s more than fair on his end. But still, I don't know why that hits me so hard. Maybe because I expected him to tell me to throw them out, or send them back. Anything but this. Anything but permission to keep holding the thing I should never have touched in the first place.

Then the next line catches me completely off guard.

Also, for the record, Sergeant Barkley is not actually a sergeant.

I stare and laugh at it.

A loud, ridiculous sound that fills the bedroom and startles me. He made a joke. After everything I said in that letter, after he read Monica’s letter. After the worst possible introduction one human being could make to another.

He made a joke.

He has no official rank and has contributed nothing to this operation except theft.

I press a hand over my mouth. “Oh, my God. This is hilarious.”

I hope the apartment is treating you okay.

The window sticks when it rains. You have to lift it a little before you pull.

My eyes flick toward the bedroom window, then back to the living room. I keep doing this every time I read one of his letters.

And the light is best around seven, depending on the time of year.

There's no reason for that sentence to feel intimate. This isn't romantic. It's just a detail about lighting. But my heart skips a beat anyway.

Thanks for writing.

I'm safe.

—George

My breath is shaky as I read those two words over and over again.

I'm safe.

I didn't realize how badly I needed to know that until he answered.

I lower the letter to my lap. The loft is quiet around me, and for a while I just stay there. The city outside the window keeps existing, unaware that my entire emotional center of gravity has just shifted because a stranger wrote me back to say he doesn’t hate me, and he added one sentence about a dog with a fake military rank.