I Couldn’t Make Myself Open the Mail

Dear Delyara, It sat on the counter for hours. Three envelopes. Nothing dramatic-looking. Probably bills, statements, something boring, something annoying, something ordinary. And somehow I couldn’t touch them. Not because I forgot. Because I didn’t want one more thing to enter my body in written form. That’s how it feels now sometimes. Mail is no longer paper. It’s possibility. Cost. Timing. Trouble. Proof that adulthood can still come for you through a slot in the front door while you’re making dinner. By the time I finally opened them, none of them were as bad as my body had prepared for. That’s the cruel part. The fear often costs more than the facts.