It was three days later, and that's when a letter came in the mail. A small, manilla envelope, hand-made and perfectly folded in all the right places. At the right corner there's a small stain, dark yellow of home-made glue. Creases folded together, the envelope is sealed blue wax with a pressed stamp of a snowman.
Whether it's the time of year, or all of my clothes had seemed to stretch. My chest tightened with breath, and every inhale was a struggle to get more in. When I would hold my breath, my chest would soften. It wouldn't hurt as much. It was then, when I would try to breathe again, would it hurt the most.
It was late, starting to get too dark to want to drive and I collected my things. My wallet, loose driver's license in my coat pocket. My car keys. I wrapped my neck in a scarf, and I left your letter on the table in the foyer. From the small windows adjacent to the front door, you could see the snow soft and falling. You could see foot falls down to the driveway. You couldn't see stars, but you could see the light from the light posts and the shadows of the trees.
Wrapped in my scarf and coat, it was three days later and I left your perfect little letter on the table in the foyer. Three days later, and I didn't need a letter to know you weren't coming home for the holidays.