Page 89 of Returned Mail

Just write when you can.

Please.

—Mia

I’m still deciding whether to wait for his response or simply keep writing. I don’t want to sound or feel desperate, but I don’t want him to feel lonely or forgotten.

I settle for waiting…

I spot the mailman as soon as I enter the building, and this time I don’t even wait for him to put my mail in the mailbox.

“Hey, excuse me, Mia Matthews, do you have anything for me?” he asks me to confirm my apartment number and show him my keys. He hands me a letter and a few pieces of junk mail.

This time, I don’t even make it upstairs. I tear it open in the hallway and start climbing the stairs.

Mia,

I told you I didn’t know how to explain this. The truth is, I think I do. I’ve just been scared to tell you.

Out here, everyone sees the uniform, the rank, the job. They see what I’m supposed to be. Steady. Controlled. Someone who knows what to do.

Maybe I am those things. Maybe I have to be.

But with you, I’m just me.

I lean against the wall; my heart is beating way too hard, and I’m out of breath.

Not a soldier. Just a man writing letters to a woman he’s never met and somehow feeling less alone because of it.

You hear me, Mia. Really hear me. I don’t think you understand how rare that is.

I think about you more than I should.

I wonder if you think about me like that too.

I want to know you completely.

Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I’m asking for too much when I’m halfway across the world and can’t offer you anything real.

But I can’t stop wanting it anyway.

—George

That night, I sit at the kitchen table again, re-reading his letter, and writing one that shows every feeling I’m no longer keeping to myself.

George,

I do think about you.

All the time, actually. More than makes sense for two people who’ve never met.

You said I hear you. The truth is, I think you hear me too. I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling invisible. Then your letters started arriving, and somehow I felt seen.

I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t know where it’s going or if it can even go anywhere. I’m scared I’m building something in my head that might not survive real life.

But I’m more scared of not telling you the truth. You matter to me, George. You matter so much it terrifies me. I don’t want to stop writing to you. I don’t want to stop knowing you.

You said you want more.