The Letter Nora Never Sent

Cal,

I started this on the ferry and I am finishing it in a motel outside Portland, which tells you how far I got in a day. Forty minutes of water and four hours of road, and I am still closer to you than I want to be.

I am not going to tell you I was wrong to leave. I was not. A person can do the right thing and still lie awake doing the math of it for nine years. Nobody warns you about that part. Leaving works, and it costs, and both of those are true at the same time.

I could still find your mooring in the dark. I do not know why I am telling you that. I think I am telling you that I remember the exact thing I chose against.

I am not going to send this. You know that. I knew it when I bought the envelope.