15. Mia
Chapter Fifteen
Mia
It happens on a Sunday morning.
Rain has been hitting the window since before I woke up, hard enough to blur the city into gray shapes.
Monica still hasn't answered. It’s been four days since I texted her. By now, I have seventeen letters from George. One returned letter from Monica. Eighteen envelopes total. All sealed. Still…
All sitting inside the wooden box on my coffee table like I invited them there.
I sit on the couch in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, holding a mug of tea that went cold twenty minutes ago.
I should put the box away.
That's what a normal person would do. Actually, a normal person would have thrown everything away when Monica told her to.
A better person would have taken the letters to the leasing office.
A sane person would not be sitting here staring at someone else's private mail like it's a bomb with a ribbon around it.
I pull the box closer anyway.
My fingers rest on the lid.
Four days.
That's how long I've given Monica to respond. I know that doesn't mean anything. She could be busy. She could be traveling. She could have changed numbers. She could have read my message and decided I was officially too strange to answer.
But the returned letter changed something. She wrote to him, and he never got it. I don't know what that means, and that's the part that keeps catching behind my ribs. The not knowing.
I lift the lid. The envelopes are exactly how I left them. George's letters are in chronological order, oldest to newest. Monica's returned letter sits beside them, separate, like it doesn't belong with the rest. My hands are shaking.
“Okay, I’ll open just one,” I whisper.
The lie comes too easily.
Just one of George's. Just enough to understand why he kept writing, just enough to know whether I should be worried. Just enough to make myself feel less insane.
I pick up the oldest envelope from George, and slide my thumb under the flap.
For a second, I stop breathing. Then I open it.
The sound of tearing paper is small. Too small for what it feels like.
I unfold the page. His handwriting is the same as it is on the envelopes, but somehow different when it becomes sentences. It feels less controlled, more human.
Monica,
Mail's slow out here, so I'm trying not to read too much into the gaps.
Trying is the key word.
Sergeant Barkley stole half of Martinez's lunch today. I know I shouldn't be impressed, but the dog has better tactical instincts than half the people on this base.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and I keep reading.
Jackson says if we don't stop feeding him, he's going to follow us home and outrank all of us by Christmas.
Honestly, he might deserve it.
I keep reaching for my phone to text you before I remember I can't. Stupid habit.
Hope you're okay.
Love you,
—George
I press my lips together, still almost smiling. This is not what I expected. I mean, I don't know what I expected. Something devastating, maybe. Something that made me feel justified for caring. Instead, there's a dog named Sergeant Barkley stealing food in the middle of a deployment.
That's it.
Okay, that wasn’t bad. I stare at the page for a long time. Then I fold it carefully and set it on the coffee table. I should stop. I should absolutely stop.
Instead, I open the next one.
Mon,
Dust storm came through last night. Whole sky went orange. You would've hated it, which means you would've stood at the window pretending you didn't.
My chest tightens.
Wait, the window. This window? I glance toward the living room glass, where rain slides down in uneven lines.
I look back at the page.
Made me think of the apartment. The way you stand there at sunset and act like you're too busy to care.
I miss that.
I miss boring things lately. Coffee that doesn't taste like punishment. Clean sheets. Your terrible reality shows. That kitchen you made us paint twice because the first gray was “too sad.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly, but I blink it away. He knew this place. I mean, of course he did. If she lived here, I can only suppose they lived here together. But reading him mention the kitchen, the window, the details I now live inside makes the loft shift around me.
I keep reading.
I hope work is better this week. I know I wasn't great before I left. I know I was quiet. I'm trying to be better at telling you things instead of waiting until they turn into a problem.
That sounded like something you'd say.
Don't get used to it.
I exhale a laugh through my nose. But then, I feel guilty for it immediately. I shouldn't be learning how he jokes. I shouldn't be learning his rhythm.
I open another letter anyway, and another.
The rain keeps falling; my tea has gone completely cold. At some point, I forget I’m reading another person’s mail. That this is a crime, technically and well… literally.
Monica,
We had a long day. Nothing you need to worry about.
That's probably exactly the kind of thing that makes you worry.
I'm okay.
Bruised up. Tired. Annoyed that Mack keeps calling me old even though thirty-six is not old.
I pause.
He’s thirty-six years old. For some reason, knowing his age makes him sharper in my mind. Not complete. I can’t imagine a face. But it feels less imaginary.
He also told me I look like “a divorced raccoon with authority issues,” so clearly morale is thriving.
I laugh again.
This time, it hurts, because the next line hits me…
I wish I could hear your voice tonight.
There was no buildup, no warning, no nothing. It was just there.
I set the letter down, and for a minute, I just listen to the rain. I don't know this man. I keep reminding myself. I don't know him. I know selected sentences from letters he wrote to someone else. That is not the same thing. That should matter. It does.
It also doesn't stop me from keeping reading.
The letters keep changing.
Not all at once.
That's the worst part. If the first one had been desperate, I might have stopped. Maybe I would've felt too guilty and put everything away. But the shift is gradual. I can see how he stops the jokes, stops sharing details…
What I see now is concern, uncertainty, then something close to fear.
Mon,
I haven't heard from you in a while.
I'm telling myself that's mail being mail.
If you wrote and I haven't gotten it, I'm sorry. I hate the idea of you thinking I'm ignoring you.
I'm not.
The next letter is worse…
Still nothing today.
It's probably delayed.
That's what everyone keeps saying.
Mail's weird. Mail's backed up. Mail's coming.
I'm trying to believe them.
Then the other one…
I know you're busy.
I know work gets bad.
I know I left things rough between us.
I know a lot of things that should make me feel better and don't.
I read that line three times. Then I put the page down and press my fingers against my eyes. The rain has softened outside. The loft is dimmer now.
I look at the letters spread across the coffee table.
Open envelopes, unfolded pages. George's handwriting everywhere.
The guilt hits so suddenly I almost stand.
I did this. No one made me do it. Monica didn't hand me these.
George didn't ask me to understand him. I opened the box.
I opened the envelopes. One by one. And now I know things I have no right to know. I should stop.
I really should.
Instead, I reach for the next letter.
Monica,
I keep thinking about what you said before I left.
That I'm good at leaving.
I hated that when you said it.
I still hate it.
But I've been sitting with it.
My old man used to disappear when I was a kid. Weeks sometimes. Then he'd come back and act like nothing happened.
I spent years promising myself I'd never be that guy. Then I grew up and picked a job that puts me on planes.
I know it's not the same. I also know that probably doesn't help when you're the one standing there watching me go.
I go still.
The rain ticks softly against the window. I don't know why that one breaks something open in me, but it does. Maybe because it isn't polished. Maybe because it doesn't ask to be forgiven. Maybe because it sounds like someone finally looking at the damage without trying to step around it.
I wipe under my eye with the back of my hand. “Shit.”
My voice sounds small in the loft.
I keep reading because I can’t stop now. By the time I reach the last few letters, the rain has nearly stopped. Hours have passed. I know because the light has changed completely. The gray morning has turned into a dull afternoon, and the city outside the window looks washed clean and tired.
I haven't eaten. My tea is untouched, my legs are stiff from sitting folded beneath me. There are opened letters across the coffee table, the couch, the floor. A timeline I had no right to build.
The second-to-last letter is shorter, and the handwriting is tighter.
Mon,
Still nothing.
I don't know what to think anymore.
Part of me is scared something happened to you.
Part of me is scared nothing happened.
If you're angry, be angry.
If you're done, say that.
I can survive a lot of things.
I don't know how to survive not knowing.
The room suddenly feels too quiet, and I cover my mouth to prevent myself from crying. It’s not like anyone is going to hear me anyway. But still… I shouldn’t be crying over this.
I reach for the newest letter. The one that arrived last, the one with the shakier handwriting. The one I almost opened days ago.
Letter twenty-four.
I know that because he writes it at the top of the page. I didn’t notice at first, but now I can see the pattern. I don’t have all the letters, which means some of them reached Monica, some got lost, or maybe they are just out there in a box labeled “returned mail”.
Monica,
Still haven't heard from you.
I know things were rough between us before I left.
I know I pulled away.
I didn't know how to come home from this and act normal. Didn't know how to tell you what was in my head without putting it in yours too.
So I stopped telling you anything.
I keep reading…
When I get back, maybe we can fix this.
Or at least talk.