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Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I just want to build my own little cocoon and hibernate for the next five to thirty business days, but of course, I just started with my lifeagain,so I can’t exactly do that.
On that note, I decide to plug my phone in and go through my emails just in case I’d received any interviews from any companies I applied to.
I watch my phone come back to life.
Then, I let every notification come through my phone, from messages from friends who received the news about the cancellation of my wedding to Clara asking me where I was. There are also promotion emails andworkemails.
Yes.I hype myself without much energy.
I receive four emails about initial interviews and answering pre-interview questionnaires.
I've received four replies from seven companies I sent my CV to. That’s good.
I scroll through my other unopened emails, and something catches my eye… another email from a familiar address.
An email from Larson Day. My ex-fiancé.
I stare at his name for a few seconds. This has been the first communication he has sent to me in eight days—since I found he’s been cheating on me.
The email has no subject.
I’m nervous that he could’ve sent me something by mistake, and my heart is hammering against my chest for nothing.
Maybe I should just ignore it. He still has blocked me everywhere, for sure. Maybe this is a mistake.
As much as I want to lie to myself that I don’t want to see what he has to say—if he has anything to say—I click the email and squint my eyes, bracing myself for disappointment.
There, I could see a short paragraph written.
Just one paragraph.
Four years together, eight months of wedding preparation, and more than a week since we broke up, only so he could send meoneparagraph.
Is that all I mean to him?
I don’t even know why I’m upset. I already know he stopped loving me at one point while we were still together; receiving one paragraph is nothing compared to that.
With tears in my eyes, I read the message:
Estelle,
You probably don’t want to hear from me. But how are you? I’ve been wondering if you’re finally ready to speak to me again. Maybe for the last time. I know I hurt you, and I know nothing I say will make things okay, but I’m driving up to Atlanta on Wednesday to give you back all your stuff from the house. Should we meet? If you don’t want to, should I just drop off your things at your apartment? Let me know.
Larson.
As I blink, tears roll down my eyes.
That’s it—it’s over.
It’s not even a paragraph about how sorry he is for putting me through everything. It’s not even a full apology. It’s just him wondering if he can drop off my things from the house we’re supposed to move into together. And while he’s at it, maybe we can talk about things for the last time.
There is nothing poetic about his email. Not even apologetic.
I scoff in disbelief as I read his message again.
Maybe if I read hard enough, I’ll see a hidden message among the lines. But even after four attempts, it’s really just him getting rid of my things under the guise of wanting to talk to me for one last time.
