Page 68 of Returned Mail

Mia Matthews

I don't know what she looks like. I don't know how old she is. I don't know why she moved into that apartment. I don't know why she kept letters from a man she had never met. I should leave it there. Instead, I look at her name for a second too long.

Why did she care?

The question has been sitting in my head for four days. I still don't have an answer, and what bothers me is that I want one.

Chapter Eighteen

Mia

back to present time

My heart stops.

I can feel it beating so fast it feels like it’s almost out of my chest.

For a long moment, I just sit there on the edge of the bed with the envelope in my hands, staring at my name written in George's handwriting. This isn’t Monica's. This is not returned mail. This isn’t something I stole, or read just because I couldn’t stop myself.

This is mine.

A letter addressed to me.

I slide my finger beneath the flap carefully, like opening it too fast might make it disappear. The paper unfolds with a soft sound. His handwriting hits me first. I know it too well by now.

Which is unsettling.

It looks steadier this time. Still controlled, still careful, but there's something tired in the pressure of the pen.

Like every word cost him something.

I start reading.

Mia,

I got your letter.

That's it, that’s the first line. It’s simpler than I would’ve thought given the circumstances, but I’ll take it.

I'm not going to lie.

I was angry.

My stomach drops, “Oh shit.” I mean, of course he was.

I opened all of his letters.

You opened letters that weren't yours.

That's a hell of an introduction.

A breathless, horrified laugh escapes me. “Yeah, exactly what I thought,” I say to myself.

I’m still not sure how I feel about it.

But you told me the truth about what you did.

You didn't have to.