Page 105 of Returned Mail

Then— “I said, get down.”

The words come out low. They were not directed at me, but they freeze me anyway. His breathing is ragged. His eyes aren't seeing this room. They're somewhere else.

My chest hurts so much. “George.”

His hand slams into the wall so hard that the sound echoes around the room. And for one terrible second, I see how scared he is. He’s not angry. He’s terrified. The realization changes everything, so I move closer. Very slowly. “George.”

His head jerks, and finally, his eyes find me. But they don't recognize me. Not yet.

“Mia?” he says.

Except it isn't a question. It's confusion, maybe disbelief. Fear.

“I'm here.”

The words shake him this time. I keep moving closer. One step. Then another. Until I'm standing right in front of him. His entire body is trembling. The strong soldier. The stubborn patient. The man who jokes through pain. Gone. This version is just scared. And lost.

“Hey, look at me.”

His eyes fight to focus, so I repeat myself, “Look at me.” Then slowly, and painfully, they do. “There you are.” His chest heaves. The room stays silent except for his breathing and mine.

“I'm here,” I say that to him again and again. Until the words stop sounding like reassurance and start sounding like truth. His shoulders begin to shake. Not from anger or from rage, but from exhaustion. From carrying too much for too long.

I reach for him. Carefully. Giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn't. The second my hands touch him, something breaks inside of him. His forehead drops to my shoulder. And for a long time, neither of us said anything. I just hold him until he eventually comes back and whispers. “I’m sorry.”

The words are so soft they almost disappear. I close my eyes. “Hey, no. No apologizing.”

His shoulders tense. “Mia⁠—”

“I said no.” I need him to hear this. I need him to understand it. “You don't have to apologize for surviving.” The room goes completely still. George doesn't move, nor do I. And after a long moment, I feel his arms wrap around me.

When George finally falls asleep again that night, his hand wrapped around mine and his breathing finally steady, I know one thing for certain.

Whatever happens next, I’m not leaving him.

Ever.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Mia

The next couple of weeks feel like time has stopped for a while.

It feels like layers of exhaustion and tenderness stacked together until I can’t tell one day from the next. I had to call work and request a leave of absence because I honestly don’t know how much time we need to be here before we can fly home. And the sick days and PTO are not covering me anymore.

Mornings are filled with tests, checkups, and blood draws.

Afternoons are physical therapy and exercises that make him grit his teeth and curse under his breath. He hides it behind sarcasm, but I see it in the small things: the way his hand trembles when he tries to grip the cup; the way his jaw tightens when he shifts his weight; the way his eyes go distant when the therapist asks him to lift his arm higher and his muscles just… don’t respond right.

“Again,” the therapist says gently.

He tries again. His shoulder spasms, movement jagged and wrong. A flash of frustration crosses his face, fast and ugly.

“That’s enough for today,” she says.

“It’s not,” he mutters.

I wait until she leaves. Then I move my chair closer to the bed and sit on the edge, facing him.