Returned Mail

1. Mia

Chapter One

Mia

Today is one of those days when you know something is wrong the second you walk through the door.

Not because of anything obvious.

The apartment looks exactly the same. The framed photo from our trip to Charleston still hangs crooked above the entry table because Sebastian always said he'd fix it ‘next weekend’, and he never did.

The dishes are still on the drying rack next to the sink, and the smell of the vanilla candle I lit this morning still lingers faintly in the air.

My purse lands on the kitchen counter beside a stack of junk mail. There’s nothing important, nothing worth opening. Everything is normal, and yet something feels off. It’s that kind of feeling that starts in your stomach, even before your brain can catch up.

I close the door behind me and call for him.

“Sebastian?” Nothing. I slip off my shoes and walk farther into the apartment.

That's when I see him. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, waiting.

Waiting for what? For me?

My stomach drops a little when I see his face. His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are fixed on the table’s wood grain. He looks like he has rehearsed this moment, like he’s been sitting there for a while, just preparing for it. Then, I notice his overnight bag near the front door.

“Hey,” I say slowly.

His head lifts. “Hey.”

My pulse starts climbing. Something is definitely wrong. “Is everything okay?” I manage to ask, but he pauses for way too fucking long.

“Yeah.”

That lie lands between us immediately.

Six years together teaches you a person's tells. I know the slight tension in his jaw when he’s saying something he doesn’t want to say. The way he avoids eye contact when he can’t bring himself to be confrontational. The way he presses his thumb against his knuckle when he's anxious.

I know all of them.

Which is why I know that he's lying.

I force a smile anyway. “Okay, now you're scaring me.” He looks down again, and my heart begins beating harder. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?” He exhales slowly, and suddenly every terrible possibility flashes through my head.

Maybe someone died. Maybe he's sick. Did he lose his job? Did something happen to his parents?

My mind races through every disaster imaginable, and I’m sure as hell hoping none of them come close to the truth.

“Can you sit down?” The words make my stomach twist.

I laugh nervously.

“Why are you talking like that?” He doesn’t say anything, which makes things way worse. He keeps that same look on his face. That same awful expression. I slowly pull out the chair across from him and sit. “What's going on?”

He rubs both hands over his face, and I just sit there, staring at him, watching his movements, waiting for something. Waiting for him to explain whatever the hell is happening.

“Mia...”

My chest tightens. Oh no. Not that tone. I know that tone. That’s the kind of tone people use before they ruin your life.

“Mia, I don't really know how to say this.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t know how to say what?” My ears start ringing, and my eyes start watering.

He swallows and looks away from me. He starts looking around the dining room, around the kitchen, the living room. He’s looking everywhere except at me. Suddenly I know. Call it women’s intuition, sixth sense, whatever the hell it is, but I know.

The last few months start replaying in my mind all at once. The late nights at work. The distance. The shorter conversations. The way he stopped reaching for my hand in the grocery store or when we walked around town. The way he seemed to be somewhere else, even when he was sitting right beside me.

I feel cold, but I’m sweating at the same time.

“Just say it, Sebastian.”

When his eyes finally meet mine, I see it. Guilt. I swear I could feel my stomach drop straight through the floor.

“I haven't been happy for a while.”

The words hit me harder than I expected because that’s not what I thought he’d say. I thought he was going to tell me he cheated on me. For a second, I just stare at him, waiting for the rest of that sentence. For more context. For literally anything else that would make sense to me right now.

Because that sure as hell doesn’t.

“What does that mean?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think we've been growing apart.”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

“Mia—”

“No.” A nervous laugh escapes me because surely that's not what this is. Surely a six-year relationship doesn't end with a conversation that sounds like it belongs in a breakup scene from a bad rom-com. “We've had rough patches before.”

“It's not just a rough patch, Mia.”

My heart starts pounding in my chest.

“No.”

His jaw tightens, and suddenly I realize he's already made up his mind. He didn't sit down with me to discuss this. He sat me down to inform me. The realization sends panic shooting through my chest.

“Sebastian.” He looks away, and I hate that. I fucking hate that he won't look at me. “We can fix this.” The words tumble out too quickly. “We've always fixed things.”

“Mia.”

“No.” I lean forward, and somewhere along the way, I’ve started crying. “We've been together for six years.”

“I know.”

“We talked about getting married.”

“I know.”

“We even looked at houses.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know.”

My voice breaks. “So what exactly are you saying?” The answer arrives before he speaks. I can see it in his face. It’s in the way he can't look at me. It’s in the guilt that’s hanging from every word he is saying. My chest tightens again. “No.”

His expression changes just slightly, and the room suddenly feels too small. Too hot. Too bright. “Mia—”

“Is there someone else?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “Is that what this is?” The look on his face confirms everything.

Everything.

Abso-fucking-lutely everything.

The world goes completely still. I stop breathing. I mean, I thought that was what he was going to say, like, some part of me already knew. But knowing is different than hearing it.

“Mia, please—”

“How long?”

He hesitates, and I swear that hesitation destroys me more than the confession did. Because if it were meaningless, he'd answer immediately. If it was a mistake, he'd answer immediately. But he doesn't. He hesitates.

God.

He hesitates.

“How long has it been happening, Sebastian?”

“Just a few months.”

The room spins. Just a few months? Not weeks. Not days. No ‘it just started’. Months. I laugh. “Wow.”

“Mia—”

“Wow.” I don't even recognize my own voice anymore. “Who is she?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Mia, please.”

“Who. Is. She.”

I ask, but it’s no longer a question. It’s more like a plea, or a demand.

“A woman from work, you don’t know her.” He says after a long pause.

Of course she is.

I almost laugh again because apparently every cliché exists for a reason. A woman from work. Somehow that hurts even more because now I can see it.

All of it.

Every sign I ignored. Every excuse I made on his behalf. Every time I chose to trust him.

“Do you have feelings for her?” Why the fuck do I keep torturing myself with these questions? His entire body goes still just for a second, but it's more than enough for me to notice. Six years is long enough to understand what that silence means. And there it is. The thing that finally breaks me.

I stare at him.

At the man I've loved since I was twenty years old. The man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. The man whose last name I've written after mine more times than I'd ever admit.

Suddenly I don't know him.

I truly don't.

“I can't believe this,” I say as tears blur my vision. “I can't believe you're doing this to me. To us.”

He stands and starts walking towards me. “Mia, I never wanted to hurt you.”

The sentence hits like gasoline on a fire. I laugh through my tears. “Then why did you?”

His mouth opens, and quickly closes. Nothing is coming out of it. Because there is no answer. Not one that matters, anyway. Not one that gives me back the future I thought was waiting for me.

“I didn't plan for this.”

I actually flinch. Somehow, that makes it worse. Like love happened to him. Like betrayal happened to him. Like he was merely a passenger in the destruction of our relationship.

“You didn't plan it?”

My voice rises as I repeat, “You didn't plan it?”

“Mia—”

“You’ve been cheating on me for months.”

His expression crumples. “I know.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think you do.”

Because if he knew, if he truly understood, he wouldn't be standing there asking for understanding. He wouldn't be looking at me as if he deserved forgiveness.

“I loved you.” The words break apart on the way out. His eyes close, and for the first time, he looks devastated too. But I don't care. Not anymore. Because his devastation doesn't compare to mine.

He chose this. I didn't.

“I still love you, Mia.”

Somehow, that’s the cruelest thing he's said all night. Because what the fuck am I supposed to do with that now? What comfort am I supposed to find in knowing the man who shattered me still loves me? Love is supposed to prevent this. Not survive it.

“Stop.”

His face falls.

“Please stop.” The tears won't stop coming. Fuck. “I don't want to hear it.”

“Mia—”

“I don't want to hear anything else.”

The apartment suddenly feels unbearable. Every corner contains a memory. Every wall. Every picture. Every piece of furniture. Our life. Our future. Our plans. Everything feels contaminated. Ruined.

I turn away from him, walking toward our bedroom, unable to look at him anymore. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then I hear movement. The scrape of a chair, footsteps, a zipper. And I remember the bag by the door.

He's leaving.

This is really happening. This isn't a fight. It isn't something we’re going to sleep on and fix tomorrow. He came prepared to leave. He had already decided before I even walked through the door. I hear him stop behind me.

“I am sorry.”

That sorry feels like an insult now. Useless little words tossed into the wreckage. After a moment, I hear him pick up the bag. Then the front door opens. Closes.

And just like that… he's gone.

The apartment falls silent, completely silent. I stand there for several seconds, or maybe minutes. I don't know. Time doesn't feel real anymore. Nothing does.

Eventually, my knees give out, and I sink onto the bedroom floor. I don't move. I just sit there trying to understand how six years can disappear in a single conversation.

A six-year relationship isn’t supposed to end like this. It’s not supposed to end on a random Tuesday. It's not supposed to end because of “a woman from work.” It's not supposed to end with silence.

It's not supposed to end at all.

But it did.

And as I sit alone on the bedroom floor of the apartment we built together, one terrible truth settles into my chest. The future I'd spent six years imagining no longer exists, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with my life now.