13. Mia
Chapter Thirteen
Mia
It's been two weeks since I moved into the loft, and the letters keep arriving.
The first one after move-in was easy to ignore. The second one, too. By the time the third arrived, ignoring them started to feel like a choice. One I'm not sure I want to keep making.
On Thursday, I'm walking toward the building stairs when I notice a letter slipping out of my mailbox. Apparently, the mail carrier didn't have the energy to shove it all the way in.
Relatable, honestly.
I slide it out and feel that now-familiar tightness in my chest when I see the handwriting. Same cream envelope. Same careful blue ink. Same return name.
George Hale.
I stand in the lobby holding it a second too long. “Stop having feelings about a stranger's mail.” I mutter, tucking it under my arm with a grocery flyer and a coupon booklet I absolutely will not use.
Upstairs, the loft smells like coffee and vanilla from the candle I forgot to blow out this morning, which is not concerning at all. The afternoon light is starting to angle through the big window, turning the living room soft and gold.
I set the grocery flyer down. Then the coupon booklet. Then the letter. It sits on the counter, one more envelope in the small, quiet stack.
“Welcome to the shrine,” I tell it dryly, as I add it to the others.
Then I pull off my shoes and wander into the living room, pretending I didn't just mentally calculate how many days it's been since the first one arrived.
Twelve days. Four letters.
Whoever George Hale is, he's persistent.
I drop onto the couch with a sigh and let my head fall back against the cushion. Work was long, my commute was terrible, and my brain feels like a cluttered desktop with too many tabs open.
Still, one file keeps popping to the front.
George Hale — unresolved mystery.
I should do what Monica said. Throw them away. Or at least stop paying attention. But my hands won't do what they're told.
Eventually, I get up and go to the kitchen.
I open the fridge and stare at the contents. Half a rotisserie chicken. Two yogurts. Some questionable lettuce. A bottle of white wine I keep telling myself I'm saving for an occasion.
“Well,” I tell the fridge. “This is bleak.”
I grab the wine. A single glass won't hurt. I fill it halfway and take it to the couch.
I need a distraction.
Me: So, there's something going on, and I need emotional support.
Lyann: What's wrong? Need me to call you? Drive there? Commit a felony?
Me: No felonies. It's just that there are letters here at the apartment.
Lyann: Letters?
Me: Like actual handwritten letters. There were a few when I moved in, and now they keep arriving.
Lyann: Okay… and?
Me: The previous tenant told me to trash them, but idk. It feels wrong.
Lyann: Cold. Are they from an ex? Brother? Secret husband?
Me: I don't know. Maybe an ex-partner? I want to read them. Is that bad?
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Lyann: I mean… legally? Yes.
Me: Great. Helpful.
Lyann: Emotionally? Also maybe yes.
Me: So I shouldn't.
Lyann: Correct.
Lyann: But you are absolutely thinking about it.
Me: I hate you.
Lyann: Don't tell me if you open them. I don't want to be subpoenaed. But if you find out he's a tragic lover, I reserve the right to know eventually.
I set the phone down and take another sip of wine.
Outside the window, the sky is starting to soften into warmer tones. Cars move along the freeway in the distance, tiny and quiet from up here. I curl my feet under me and let my thoughts wander in the direction I've been pretending they don't want to go.
Who writes letters anymore?
Emails, sure. Texts, obviously. But pen on paper feels intentional. Someone had to sit down, write the words, fold the paper, seal the envelope, send it. That doesn't mean the letters are romantic. It doesn't mean George is good. It doesn't mean Monica is cruel.
It means nothing, technically.
Still, the memory of Monica's voice crawls back in. Anything from George can be discarded. It bothers me how easy that sounded for her. How final. Maybe I'm projecting.
Actually, I'm definitely projecting.
I'm the kind of person who struggles to throw away birthday cards from people I barely talk to anymore. I still have a shoebox somewhere full of old notes, ticket stubs, receipts from good days, and random scraps of paper that mean absolutely nothing to the universe and too much to me.
I remember the way people sign their names. I get attached to handwriting. So yes, okay, maybe I'm predisposed to care too much. But this still feels… off.
I finish the first glass of wine slowly, feeling the edges of the day soften. Then I stand, stretch, and wander back into the kitchen without really deciding to.
The drawer is right there.
I open it.
The stack still looks small, but somehow it feels heavy.
I pick up the envelopes and fan them out like playing cards.
They look harmless. Almost. The return address tells me enough to know he's military.
I stare at the careful handwriting. A thought slides in before I can stop it. What if he thinks she's getting these?
“Nope.” Not my business.
Really, truly, aggressively not my business.
I close the drawer, pour myself more wine, and head back to the couch.
The next day, there's another letter waiting for me.
It's ridiculous at this point.
I find it when I come home from work, half hanging out of my mailbox slot like it's trying to escape the metal box and run to the loft itself.
“Of course,” I mutter, pulling it free. “Come on in. Join the club.”
Back upstairs, I put my keys in the dish by the door, drop my bag, and look down at the envelope in my hand.
Something feels different about this one.
It's the same cream paper. Same careful handwriting.
Same return name. But the pen strokes look less steady in places.
Like whoever wrote it pressed too hard, then not hard enough.
I slide my finger under the flap.
Then I stop, and my whole body freezes.
“No.”
I pull my hand back like I've touched a hot stove. “Mia, absolutely not.” I put it with the others. Thirteen now. All from the same sender. All to the same woman who no longer lives here. You'd think I'd get used to the sight.
I don't.
That night, while reheating leftovers and pretending not to stare at the drawer, I think about Sebastian. After he picked up his things, we faded out in the most modern, disappointing way possible. No letters. No big final speech. No closure. Just a silence that kept getting easier to maintain.
We did the mature thing, I guess. Or the cowardly thing. Sometimes those look exactly the same.
Maybe that's why these letters bother me.
Because this stranger is doing something no one ever did for me.
He's trying. Or at least, it looks like he is trying.
And maybe that's the problem. I don't know what's inside those envelopes.
I don't know if they're apologies, excuses, grocery lists, or emotional manipulation written in beautiful handwriting.
I know nothing.
Except that someone keeps sending pieces of paper into a place where no one is reading them. And there's something about that I can't stop thinking about.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and reach for my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over Monica's number. No. That's pointless. She made it very clear where she stands.
I open my notes app instead and type…
Note to self: Do not read a random soldier's mail. That is illegal, invasive, and probably a great way to spiral into someone else's tragedy.
I stare at the screen. Then, because apparently I enjoy arguing with myself, I add…
Also, if you were going to read it—which you are not—would it really be the worst thing in the world if it meant making sure he isn't sending pieces of himself into an actual black hole?
I stare at the question for a long time. Then I lock my phone and drop it on the counter. The drawer stays closed.
For now.