Page 7 of Returned Mail

One argument became another, then we were laughing and making lists. Dreaming about the possibility.

When I open the note, I see dozens of names. Some we picked seriously. Others are truly ridiculous. Some even have little comments beside them.

Absolutely not — Mia

You have no taste — Sebastian

Maybe for a middle name?

I actually love this one.

My throat closes as I scroll slowly.

Every name feels like evidence that we once had a future. Evidence that he helped me imagine it. Evidence that at some point, we sat together and talked about children who will never exist. I stare at the screen until the words blur. Then I throw the phone across the couch. Not just out of anger, but more so, out of exhaustion.

Because everything hurts.

Everything.

A week after Sebastian left, there's a knock on the door.

I'm on the couch beneath my blanket, staring at a television I haven't actually been watching for the past hour. I'm not expecting anyone, so I ignore it. The knock comes again.

I pull the blanket higher.

Nope.

Whatever it is can go away. Then whoever is outside starts pounding. “Mia, if you don't open this door, I swear to God, I'm breaking in.”

I roll my eyes.

Lyann.

I've been ignoring her texts and calls for the past week, which, in hindsight, was probably a tactical mistake. Lyann doesn't respond well to being ignored. It activates something in her. Something persistent, and too fucking loud.

“Mia!”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

I slowly stand from the couch and drag myself across the apartment. When I open the door, her expression changes immediately. For one second, she just stares at me. She looks concerned. Heartbroken for me, maybe. Then her eyes narrow. A little pissed too. At him, not me. I hope.

“Sweet baby Jesus, Mia.” Her gaze moves slowly from my hair to my oversized T-shirt to the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. “First of all, what the fuck are you wearing? Second, when was the last time you brushed your hair?”

I almost laugh.

“Okay, you can't say Jesus and fuck in the same statement.”

“I just did.”

“And I showered yesterday.” She looks me up and down again. I pull the blanket tighter around myself. “Insinuating that I haven't is a bit insulting.”

“Well, you don't look like it, so go hop in the shower while I make you some food.” She pushes past me, carrying three grocery bags and enough coffee to fuel us both for a week.

The second she enters, she starts assessing the damage. Her eyes move over the living room. The blanket nest. The collection of water glasses on the coffee table. The unopened takeout container from two nights ago. She glances toward the bedroom, then back at me. Her expression softens.

I hate that more than the jokes.

“Okay,” she says.