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 the first two lines and knew the rest. All those promises, in his cursive, before he became the person who had said the things he said at the end. She sat on the bedroom floor with the drawer half open and let herself really look at how far apart the two of them had been, even then. She had been loved by someone who was already figuring out how to leave. She put it back, face down, and did not slam the drawer.
