11. Monica
Chapter Eleven
Monica
It’s been eight months since George left, about six weeks since I last wrote back, and two weeks since I decided to leave.
The leasing office smells like printer ink, stale coffee, and that artificial lemon cleaner landlords use when they want you to think a place is well-managed.
This is not that.
I cross my legs and glance at the clock on the wall for the third time. I shouldn’t be here this long. I have a meeting in forty minutes, and I’m already mentally rewriting my presentation because Todd will inevitably try to steal the opening slide again.
“Ms. Harris?”
I stand, smooth my blouse, and follow the leasing manager into her office. She shuts the door behind me and gestures toward the chair across from her desk. Her nails are chipped mauve. I try not to look at them. I fail. Details matter. Presentation matters. She should know that in her line of work.
“Alright,” she says, opening a folder. “I have the approved sublease paperwork here.”
“Good.”
“Since Mr. Hale is the primary leaseholder, the original lease will remain active. This agreement simply authorizes the approved tenant to occupy the unit for the two-year term.”
“I understand.”
“And the authorization you have on file allows us to process the arrangement while he’s deployed.”
“Okay.”
She glances down at the paperwork.
“The new tenant is a single applicant. Quiet, good references, income verified. Everything cleared without an issue.”
Good. Smooth is what I need. I don’t ask her name.
I saw it on the application. Mia…something.
I don’t remember the last name. It doesn’t matter.
She needs somewhere to live. I need someone in the apartment.
George needs a lease that doesn’t become another problem waiting for him whenever he comes back. Everyone gets something.
The manager pushes the agreement across the desk.
A thick stack of paper, probably half of which nobody reads. I read it. I skim the clauses I already reviewed digitally. Maintenance expectations. Security deposit. Building access. Termination conditions. Liability. I initial everywhere she indicates.
It should feel strange to sign over the apartment George and I shared, but it doesn’t. The place stopped feeling like ours months before he left. Maybe longer.
His uniform hanging from the closet door, boots beside the bed, that damn duffel bag always half-packed in the corner.
Even when he was home, part of him seemed ready to go.
I used to hate that bag. Stupid thing to resent.
But some nights I’d lie in bed looking at it and wonder how long we had before he needed it again.
There was always another departure waiting somewhere. Maybe that’s why I stopped unpacking completely too. Not my clothes.
Me.
“Ms. Harris?”
I look up. The leasing manager is holding out a pen. I already have one in my hand. “Sorry.”
She smiles politely.
“I just need your signature on the last page.”
I sign. Done. She gathers the papers into a neat stack.
“Once everything is processed, you’ll receive a digital copy. The new tenant’s move-in date is already confirmed.”
“Good.”
“Would you like us to contact you directly if there are any issues with the unit?”
“No.” The answer comes quickly.
She pauses.
I soften it. “I’ll be abroad. Email is best for anything that legally requires my attention. Otherwise, use the existing property contact instructions.”
“Of course.” She closes the folder. “That should be everything.”
I stand and shake her hand. Her grip is slightly damp. I resist the urge to wipe my palm against my skirt.
Outside, my heels strike the pavement in quick, sharp beats. The day is too bright for how tired I feel. Sunlight catches the windshield of the sedan next to mine and flashes directly into my eyes. I blink against it.
My phone buzzes.
Need final deck before noon. Also thinking I should handle opening.
I stare at the message.
Then type, The opening is already finalized. I’ll be presenting it as planned.
I unlock my car.
The breakup letter is in my bag. I wrote it three times. The first was too blunt. The second left too much room for hope. The third said what needed to be said. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door.
George always hated the way I talked about communication. Clear communication. Direct expectations. Defined outcomes. He said I made relationships sound like performance reviews.
Maybe I did.
But what else was I supposed to use with a man who could tell a room full of soldiers exactly what to do in a crisis and still look at me like I’d asked him to translate another language when I said, Tell me what’s wrong?
I reach into my bag and pull out the envelope.
I take the page out and read it one last time.
George,
I’ve rewritten this more times than I want to admit, and every version ends in the same place.
I stop. My fingers tighten slightly around the paper.
Then I keep reading.
I can’t do this anymore.
There it is, the sentence I avoided in the first two drafts. The only one that mattered.
I know things between us haven’t been right for a long time. I kept telling myself we were going through a hard season. That deployment made everything worse. That when you came home, we would find our way back to each other.
But every time you came home, I found myself waiting for a different version of you.
I never knew who would walk through the door. Sometimes you were quiet. Sometimes angry. Sometimes you looked at me like you loved me but couldn’t remember how to reach me.
And I kept adjusting.
I learned when not to ask questions. I learned when to give you space. I learned how to sleep beside someone who was somewhere else. I learned how to stop taking silence personally, even when it felt personal.
I told myself that loving you meant understanding.
Then understanding became waiting.
Waiting for you to call, for you to write, for you to come home, for you to talk. Waiting for the man I loved to come back to me even when you were already standing in the same room.
I stop.
For one second, something presses hard beneath my ribs. I look through the windshield. Cars move through the parking lot. Someone pushes a shopping cart toward the building next door. A woman is arguing into her phone. The world continues.
I look back down.
I can’t keep building my life around waiting for you to come back and wondering who you’ll be when you do.
That line took me the longest. While it might sound cruel, it is the truth. I read on.
I know you didn’t choose every part of this. I know there are things you carry that you don’t know how to put down. I know you love me in the ways you know how.
But I have spent years trying to convince myself that should be enough.
It isn’t.
My throat tightens, and I swallow.
I need a life I can actually live while it’s happening. Not one I keep postponing until the next homecoming, the next deployment, the next promise that things will be different when there’s more time.
There is never more time, George.
I care about you. I think part of me always will. But I don’t want to be angry at you anymore. And I don’t want to become someone who resents you for being exactly who you have always told me you are.
So I’m leaving.
I’ve arranged an approved sublease for the apartment. The original lease remains in place, and the building has everything it needs while you’re deployed. You won’t need to handle anything from there.
My fingers shift against the page.
Of course I included logistics. Even while ending us, I made sure he wouldn’t come home to a legal mess.
Some habits survive everything.
I’m going to Paris.
This isn’t me asking you to wait. And I’m not going to wait either.
I’m sorry. I hope one day you understand that I didn’t leave because I never loved you.
I left because I couldn’t keep disappearing inside a life built around waiting for you to come back. We could talk later, but for now, I’m choosing me.
—Monica
I sit there with the letter in my hands.
There are no more tears. I cried those weeks ago. Months ago, maybe. In the shower. In bed. Once in the grocery store because I reached for the coffee George liked and realized I had no idea when he’d drink it again.
I’m done crying now, at least today.
I fold the letter back into thirds. Slide it into the envelope. Seal it. My thumb presses firmly across the adhesive. Something final. Something clean. It’s not that I didn’t love him.
I did.
Maybe I still do.
But love isn’t enough. Not when every conversation becomes a guessing game. Not when I have to parse every silence like evidence. Not when he disappears into himself for weeks, then comes back expecting everything to be where he left it. Including me.
Especially me.
I start the car. The AC blasts cold air across my face. For a moment, I sit there with both hands on the wheel, and drive off to the post office.
The line is short. Thank God. I stand behind a man holding three padded envelopes and a woman trying to keep a toddler from licking the counter.
When it’s my turn, I step forward, and the clerk looks at me. “Just this?”
“Yes,” I say, sliding the letter into the counter. The clerk processes it. There should be something strange about that, but there isn’t. I wait to feel something, maybe regret, sadness, panic even. The sudden urge to reach inside and take it back, but nothing comes.
Just a quiet thought.
It’s better this way.
…and I leave.