18. Mia
Chapter Eighteen
Mia
back to present time
My heart stops.
I can feel it beating so fast it feels like it’s almost out of my chest.
For a long moment, I just sit there on the edge of the bed with the envelope in my hands, staring at my name written in George's handwriting. This isn’t Monica's. This is not returned mail. This isn’t something I stole, or read just because I couldn’t stop myself.
This is mine.
A letter addressed to me.
I slide my finger beneath the flap carefully, like opening it too fast might make it disappear. The paper unfolds with a soft sound. His handwriting hits me first. I know it too well by now.
Which is unsettling.
It looks steadier this time. Still controlled, still careful, but there's something tired in the pressure of the pen.
Like every word cost him something.
I start reading.
Mia,
I got your letter.
That's it, that’s the first line. It’s simpler than I would’ve thought given the circumstances, but I’ll take it.
I'm not going to lie.
I was angry.
My stomach drops, “Oh shit.” I mean, of course he was.
I opened all of his letters.
You opened letters that weren't yours.
That's a hell of an introduction.
A breathless, horrified laugh escapes me. “Yeah, exactly what I thought,” I say to myself.
I’m still not sure how I feel about it.
But you told me the truth about what you did.
You didn't have to.
My eyes burn. I don’t know if he’s kinda forgiving me or something, but it feels like it.
And you sent Monica's letter.
I wish I could say I didn't know. I think part of me did. Knowing and seeing it written down are different things.
I press the page harder…
There's something about that sentence that goes straight through me. Because I know exactly what he means. Not in the same way, and not with the same history. But I know the difference between suspecting your life has changed and having the proof in front of you.
Everything comes back to me in a flash. I remember Sebastian at the kitchen table, the overnight bag near the door, the moment knowing became real.
So thank you. I would rather know than keep writing to someone who had already left.
I feel relieved that he knows, and relieved that he doesn’t hate me, at least not as much.
You said you still have my letters.
Keep them for now. I'm not ready to decide what happens to them.
My fingers tighten around the page. That’s more than fair on his end.
But still, I don't know why that hits me so hard.
Maybe because I expected him to tell me to throw them out, or send them back.
Anything but this. Anything but permission to keep holding the thing I should never have touched in the first place.
Then the next line catches me completely off guard.
Also, for the record, Sergeant Barkley is not actually a sergeant.
I stare and laugh at it.
A loud, ridiculous sound that fills the bedroom and startles me. He made a joke. After everything I said in that letter, after he read Monica’s letter. After the worst possible introduction one human being could make to another.
He made a joke.
He has no official rank and has contributed nothing to this operation except theft.
I press a hand over my mouth. “Oh, my God. This is hilarious.”
I hope the apartment is treating you okay.
The window sticks when it rains. You have to lift it a little before you pull.
My eyes flick toward the bedroom window, then back to the living room. I keep doing this every time I read one of his letters.
And the light is best around seven, depending on the time of year.
There's no reason for that sentence to feel intimate. This isn't romantic. It's just a detail about lighting. But my heart skips a beat anyway.
Thanks for writing.
I'm safe.
—George
My breath is shaky as I read those two words over and over again.
I'm safe.
I didn't realize how badly I needed to know that until he answered.
I lower the letter to my lap. The loft is quiet around me, and for a while I just stay there.
The city outside the window keeps existing, unaware that my entire emotional center of gravity has just shifted because a stranger wrote me back to say he doesn’t hate me, and he added one sentence about a dog with a fake military rank.
He's angry, and grieving. But he is alive, well, and he wrote back.
I fold the letter carefully, then unfold it again, and read it once more. Then a third time. By the fourth, I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, holding the page like it might explain what happens next.
It doesn't.
So I get up and find a blank sheet of paper.
I spend around twenty minutes staring at the empty page.
It’s not because I don’t know what to say.
I mean, I don’t really. But also, I know too many things I shouldn't say.
I shouldn't tell him I cried reading his letters.
I shouldn't tell him I laughed at Sergeant Barkley so hard I almost peed my pants.
So I start with the least dangerous truth.
George,
I'm relieved you wrote back.
I stop.
Is that too honest? Probably.
I'm also relieved you were angry.
That looks weird, but I keep going before I can overthink it.
Not because I wanted to hurt you. I didn't. But because if you had forgiven me immediately, I think I would have felt worse.
What I did was wrong.
I know that.
I'm sorry.
The apology might look small on the page, but it's true. That’s how I truly feel about this whole situation.
I chew on the end of my pen for a while, then keep writing.
And thank you for letting me keep the letters for now. I'll keep them safe until you know what you want done with them.
My pen hovers, and apparently my self-control is still questionable, because then I add…
For the record, Sergeant Barkley sounds like exactly the kind of leader this world needs.
I smile.
Also, the window does stick when it rains. I thought it was user error, so thank you for preserving my dignity.
You were right about the light. Around seven, the whole room changes. I didn't understand why the window mattered when I first moved in. I just thought it was beautiful.
Now I think maybe it's the kind of place people stand when they don't know where else to put themselves.
I'm glad you're safe.
—Mia
My cheeks warm the second I reread it.
“Wow. Okay, Mia, look at you.”
I fold the letter before I can ruin it. I address the envelope using the return information from his letter, checking every number twice. When I slide it into the outgoing slot downstairs, I don't feel hollow this time. I feel nervous.
There's a huge difference in that.
His next reply comes thirteen days later. Which is not quickly enough for my sanity. I tell myself many things, but none of them stop me from waiting and wanting…
When the envelope finally appears, I stand in the lobby and smile so hard I immediately look around to make sure no one saw me. Then I take the stairs two at a time.
Inside the loft, I open it at the kitchen counter and start reading it. He's glad we're writing back and forth, which is nice.
Sergeant Barkley appreciates your endorsement, but I refuse to tell him. His ego is bad enough.
The window sticking is not user error. It's structural stubbornness. Lift first, then pull. If that fails, threaten it. That worked for me twice.
I lean against the counter, smiling, right until the letter shifts…
I know I don't know anything about you.
That's probably for the best.
A line is crossed out beneath it, so I can't read the whole thing, but I can manage at least one word: “not”.
It makes my pulse trip a little…
I mean, it's strange. You're in that apartment. You've read things I wrote when I thought no one was listening. You know pieces of me I didn't hand to you directly.
And I know almost nothing about you except that you kept the letters when someone else told you to throw them away.
That says something.
I press the letter flat against the counter.
My throat tightens a little. “This is— I don’t—”, I try to say something to myself, but there’s nothing. He sees what I did wrong, and yet somehow he also sees something good inside it.
So tell me one thing. Something small.
Nothing heavy.
Favorite bad dinner when you're too tired to cook.
That pulls a laugh out of me… Okay, this is getting good now.
I answer that night.
George,
Crackers while standing in the kitchen.
Yep, that’s it, only crackers… The fancy ones you put in a charcuterie board. Well, sometimes with cheese or cream cheese if I’m feeling like a woman with actual life goals.
Please don't judge me. I already judge myself enough for both of us.
Your turn. Favorite bad dinner.
His reply arrives almost two weeks later.
Peanut butter on a spoon.
Not proud of it, but not ashamed either.
I laugh so hard I have to sit down. I obviously reply immediately, because I know it will take a long time to hear back from him.
After that, the letters change.
We start talking about everyday things. I tell him about my job, not every boring detail about it, but I tell him that I work in marketing. That my boss says ‘circle back’ on a daily basis, and that I once sat through a forty-minute meeting about the shade of blue in a campaign graphic.
George writes back almost immediately.
Well, it took around ten days, but it felt instant to me.
I have seen grown men argue for twenty minutes about whether a label should say "equipment" or "gear." So either every industry is stupid, or we're all the same species.
I tell him the loft makes weird noises at night.
The third pipe from the left in the bedroom wall knocks when the temperature drops. It used to drive Monica crazy.
Sorry.
I stare at that apology for a long time.
You don't have to apologize for having memories here. I'm the one living inside them.
His answer comes weeks later.
That sentence sat with me longer than I expected. I don't know what to do with that.
The teasing sneaks in first.
I bet you make coffee with enough sugar to qualify as dessert.
I read that three times; it made me giggle because it is true. I do like my coffee sweet, or too sweet according to him.
I bet you drink it black because you hate joy.
I keep his last letter open on the counter for two days because every time I see it, I smile.
Then the honesty comes in around the edges. George never openly dumps emotion onto the page. He leaves it in corners. Between jokes, and under practical details.
Some days are loud.
That's all he wrote once. It’s kinda poetic if I think about it. One sentence at the end of a letter mostly about bad coffee and Mack stealing someone's clean socks as revenge for losing a card game.
Some days are quiet here in a way I don't always like.
It feels too vulnerable, but I send it anyway.
I think we are way past all that now.
We’ve been sending each other’s letters for over a couple of months now.
By now, I know his handwriting better than I know some people's faces. That should concern me. It truly should. But it doesn’t, and it doesn't stop me either.
I know when he is tired because the ends of his words drag. I know when he's trying not to say something because he starts writing about the weather. I know when Mack has annoyed him because Mack's name appears three times on a page, and at least one of them is followed by ‘asshole’.
I know George hates being called old, because he is ‘only thirty-six’. I know he drinks terrible coffee. I know he misses having clean sheets. I know he thinks stars look different when there is no city around.
And he knows things about me too.
He knows I talk to my fridge when I'm overwhelmed, and that I sleep with one leg outside the blanket even when I'm cold. He knows I hate the word fine. He knows Sebastian broke something in me I'm still too embarrassed to name.
I haven’t told him the whole story.
But one night, after too much wine and a rainstorm that makes the window stick again, I write…
I think I stayed with someone for six years because leaving felt like admitting I had wasted the time.
I regret it the second I put it in the mailbox.
For eighteen days, I panic. Then George's answer arrives.
I don't think loving someone is a waste just because it ended.
I sit down on the stairs because I don't make it back to the loft before my knees forget their job.
But I know what you mean.
I press the letter to my chest before I can stop myself. Then immediately pull it away.
“This is normal behavior,” I whisper to myself in the stairwell.
It is not.
Tonight, months after his first letter to me, I stand at the window just before seven. I notice how light changes slowly. There are some gold tones over the floor, and the light is soft along the walls.
I think about him standing here before me.
Not in a romantic way. Well, that is what I tell myself to calm down. Just in a human way. Two people, staring at the same window, going through different heartbreaks.
I write him that night.
Sometimes I stand at the window the way you said you used to. I think I understand it now. It makes the world feel manageable. Like no matter how overwhelming life gets, there's still something steady to look at.
I almost don't send it. It feels too much like admitting he has changed the way I live in this place. But it's true.
His reply comes three weeks later. The envelope is more worn than usual, like it had a rough trip getting here. I open it sitting on the living room floor.
Mia,
It's strange. The window never fixed anything when I was there. I think I wanted it to. Mostly, it just gave me somewhere to stand when I didn't know how to be in the room.
But now, thinking of you there, it feels different. Better. Like maybe that place can be a home for someone after all.
I stop, and my fingers tighten around the page. I feel like I just stop breathing. “Oh shit.”
This is starting to feel like…something.
Something I don’t have a name for, maybe not yet, or maybe not ever, but it is something.
Something that waits for me in the mailbox and follows me through my days. Something about it makes me feel closer to a man I've never seen before than to people I've known for years.
That thought scares the fuck out of me.
“George,” I whisper to the quiet loft, “what the hell are we doing?”