Page 88 of Returned Mail

Mia

There’s a particular kind of letter from George that hits differently.

It’s not exactly because of what he says, though God knows every word he writes seems to find some new place beneath my skin; it is how he says it. The things he almost admits. The spaces between sentences. The words I can tell cost him something to put on paper.

Tonight’s letter is one of those.

I find it in my mailbox after work, folded thick inside an envelope with my name written across the front. My fingertips tingle the second I see his handwriting. I take the stairs instead of the elevator because I can’t wait the extra twenty seconds.

The loft door barely clicks shut before I’m tearing it open. I sit on the couch, cross my legs beneath me, and read.

Mia,

Today felt wrong. Nothing terrible happened, but it reminded me how fast things can change out here.

It made me think of you. Of the window. Of how I picture you standing there, and somehow I don’t feel so alone.

My chest tightens, but I keep going.

I want you to know something. If things ever go bad, if something ever stops me from writing, it won’t be because I didn’t want to.

It won’t be because I forgot you.

I don’t think I could anyway.

My breath stalls.

For a moment, I just stare at the page.

There’s something frightening about seeing the possibility written down. Until now, I’ve managed to keep the danger of where he is somewhere distant and abstract. I know he’s deployed. I know what that means. But knowing and letting myself imagine are two different things.

George has never made me imagine before.

Not like this.

You help more than you think. Your letters are the best part of my days here. I look for them even when I know nothing’s coming.

You matter to me, Mia.

Even if I don’t have the right words to explain it yet.

—George

Something inside me gives. The feeling moves through me slowly, hot and overwhelming, until my skin feels too tight and my heartbeat is everywhere.

I pace once across the loft, his letter still in my hand, then stop at the window. The window that used to be his. The one he pictures me standing in front of when the loneliness gets bad. I press my forehead to the glass, and watch as the city glitters below. “I want you,” I whisper.

The words disappear into the empty room.

By midnight, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper. It’s been a while since I got one of his letters, and based on the postmark on this one, he sent it weeks ago, not days.

George,

I don’t know how to respond to your letter without saying too much. Or maybe exactly enough.

You matter to me too. More than I expected. More than makes sense.

I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I know that probably sounds obvious, but the thought of you being afraid out there makes something inside me twist in a way I can’t explain.