She was looking for the car registration when she found the letter. Folded, yellowed. Her name on the envelope in his handwriting, from eight years ago. She read it. He had been so open. He had trusted her with every soft thing in him and she had — she had not been the person the letter was addressed to, not really, not by the end. She had known things he didn't know and she had used them. Eight years and here it was in her own drawer, the evidence of how he had seen her before he knew better. She folded the letter small and tight and pushed it further back into the drawer.
