Page 70 of Returned Mail

He's angry, and grieving. But he is alive, well, and he wrote back.

I fold the letter carefully, then unfold it again, and read it once more. Then a third time. By the fourth, I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, holding the page like it might explain what happens next.

It doesn't.

So I get up and find a blank sheet of paper.

I spend around twenty minutes staring at the empty page. It’s not because I don’t know what to say. I mean, I don’t really. But also, I know too many things I shouldn't say. I shouldn't tell him I cried reading his letters. I shouldn't tell him I laughed at Sergeant Barkley so hard I almost peed my pants.

So I start with the least dangerous truth.

George,

I'm relieved you wrote back.

I stop.

Is that too honest? Probably.

I'm also relieved you were angry.

That looks weird, but I keep going before I can overthink it.

Not because I wanted to hurt you. I didn't. But because if you had forgiven me immediately, I think I would have felt worse.

What I did was wrong.

I know that.

I'm sorry.

The apology might look small on the page, but it's true. That’s how I truly feel about this whole situation.

I chew on the end of my pen for a while, then keep writing.

And thank you for letting me keep the letters for now. I'll keep them safe until you know what you want done with them.

My pen hovers, and apparently my self-control is still questionable, because then I add…

For the record, Sergeant Barkley sounds like exactly the kind of leader this world needs.

I smile.

Also, the window does stick when it rains. I thought it was user error, so thank you for preserving my dignity.

You were right about the light. Around seven, the whole room changes. I didn't understand why the window mattered when I first moved in. I just thought it was beautiful.

Now I think maybe it's the kind of place people stand when they don't know where else to put themselves.

I'm glad you're safe.

—Mia

My cheeks warm the second I reread it.

“Wow. Okay, Mia, look at you.”

I fold the letter before I can ruin it. I address the envelope using the return information from his letter, checking every number twice. When I slide it into the outgoing slot downstairs, I don't feel hollow this time. I feel nervous.