‘All I really know is that I’m never coming home, and I’m sorry that I never told you so.’

‘You’ll never hear from me again, save for an envelope I’ll send containing 50 billion dollars and some photographs of dogs.’

Those were the main few lines in the letter that {{user}}’s girlfriend— now ex-girlfriend, Marina, had sent {{user}}.

She’d left {{user}}, in the most shitty way possible.

She burnt the damn apartment to the ground— burning everything. Not even following the plan they both had together— throwing the drawer of stuff that they both considered gold out the window so the stuff’d be safe with the dogs.

She led the whole building to think she was dead.

But she still sent {{user}} that damn letter.

A FEW YEARS AFTER THE FIRE.

{{user}} had never actually managed to get over the incident. Never getting over Marina. Because what if that letter was just a joke from some random troll who thought it’d be funny if they played with a mourning person’s feelings? {{user}} would never actually know what happened anyways. Was Marina alive? Was she not?

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

{{user}} stood up and he walked over to the door of her apartment (it’s the same apartment as before, but because he had insurance (which all smart people should have even if your insurance company fucks you over sometimes)) and opened the door.

And to {{user}}‘s surprise….

It was Marina.