Page 98 of Returned Mail

He's there.

In the bed. He looks pale; he is bruised and bandaged across his ribs and shoulder. His dark brown hair is a tangled mess. He has an IV taped into his hand. He looks nothing like his photo except for the shape of his mouth.

My breath breaks.

I move toward him slowly, like approaching something fragile. He looks like someone who fought for his life. Which I know he does, but still, seeing him like this hurts.

A sound escapes me; it’s not quite a sob, but not quite a gasp either. I sit beside him and touch the back of his hand with trembling fingers. He's warm.

“George…” The word barely makes it out.

“I'm here.” Tears burn hot down my cheeks, but I don't have the strength to wipe them away.

It's been three days since I arrived.

Three days since the world tilted, and I thought I'd lose him before I ever really had him. But he's stable now. Stable. The word the doctors kept using cautiously at first, like they were afraid to jinx it. Now they say it with more confidence.

“He's doing well,” Dr. Vega told me this morning. “Better than we expected, honestly. He's strong.”

Strong.

George is strong.

I knew that from his letters, but seeing it, watching his body fight its way back, is something else entirely. The critical 48- 72-hour window has passed. No more crashes. No more alarms. Just steady, incremental improvement. His vitals are holding. The internal bleeding has stopped. The swelling is going down.

Yesterday, they started bringing him up from the sedation.

“Waking him up,” they called it, though it's not like flipping a switch. It's gradual. Controlled. They lighten the sedation bit by bit and watch how his body responds.

This morning, his eyes fluttered open for the first time.

Just for a second.

He was confused. His eyes wandered unfocused through the room, then immediately closed again. But they opened. I was holding his hand when it happened, and I swear I felt his fingers twitch against mine.

“George,” I whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.” I don't know if he heard me. He went straight back to sleep, but I said it anyway.

After that, he didn’t move anymore, and I just let him be.

I haven't left.

I canceled the hotel reservation the first night when the nurse told me I could stay. There's a family waiting room down the hall with uncomfortable chairs that recline just enough to trick your body into thinking it's sleeping.

I shower in the family restroom. The staff sometimes brings me food: sandwiches, soup, coffee. So much coffee. I've lost count. They all know me by now. “Mia,” they say when they pass. “How are you holding up?” I smile. Nod. Say I'm fine.

Because what else do you say? I flew across the world for a man I've never met, and I'm running on fumes and adrenaline and the terrifying hope that he'll wake up and recognize me?

Yeah. That doesn't fit on a small-talk card for a hospital.

My phone buzzes.

Lyann: Hi babes, are you okay? How are you holding up? Are you even sleeping?

Me: I’ve slept a couple of hours here and there. And… I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess…

Lyann: Oh Mia!!!!!

Me: I'm fine. He's stable. That's all that matters.