Page 99 of Returned Mail

Lyann: No, it also matters that you are okay.

Me: I’ll be better when he wakes up.

Lyann: What’s the plan for when that happens? Are you just going to be like, ‘hey, I flew across the country for you, and then you almost died’?

Me: Yeap, that’s exactly how I have it prepared in my mind…

I roll my eyes at her text.

Lyann: Okay, all jokes aside, I get it now.

Me: Get what?

Lyann: Why you went. You're in love with him.

My chest tightens. I haven’t even stopped myself from thinking about that. I know I care about him, I know he matters to me, I know the connection we have, but…in love with him?

Am I?

This morning, Dr. Vega stopped by during rounds. “He's doing remarkably well,” he said, checking the chart. “If he continues like this, we'll have him fully awake in the next day or two.”

“And then?” I ask.

Dr. Vega smiles. “Then we see how he does. But I'm optimistic, Mia. He's a fighter.”

After he leaves, I sit back down beside George. His hand is still warm under mine. His chest rises and falls steadily. And for the first time since I opened that military notice in my mailbox, I let myself believe it.

He's going to survive this.

He's going to wake up.

And when he does, I'll be right here.

Chapter Thirty

George

I used to believe darkness was just that…something dark, but now? Now I feel like darkness has some weight to it, and it’s heavy to carry.

I can hear certain sounds, but it filters through in pieces—muffled, like I'm underwater. I hear footsteps, some machines beeping. Someone is breathing close to me. And then a voice. “...you have to wake up. I'm not leaving. Do you hear me? I came all this way, so you'd better not pull some dramatic soldier stunt and make me regret it.”

Mia?

Is she here? She came all the way here?

But how?

Why?

My chest tightens harder, or maybe that's the pain medication. Hard to tell right now. Her voice keeps drifting in and out like a radio station losing signal. “...you matter to me. I don't know if you know that. I don't even know if you can hear me. But you... you matter. You're not alone, okay? You're not.”

I want to answer.

I try.

But my body feels like it's made of sandbags.

My eyelids are glued shut, my tongue feels too thick to move. Fuck, I want to answer. Someone touches my hand. It’s gentle, and a trembling touch. I know it's her. Even unconscious, if that’s what I am, I know it's her.