Page 78 of Returned Mail

Mia

There's a package in the mailroom. It's addressed to me in handwriting I recognize. George.

My heart stalls. I feel the shift in my body before I even touch it—something warm, electric, anticipatory. I pick the box up gently and carry it upstairs.

By the time I reach the loft, my hands are shaking. I set the package on the kitchen counter and stare at it for a moment. Finally, I pull a knife from the drawer and slice through the tape. The flaps open. Inside, nestled in crumpled brown packing paper, is a Polaroid camera. It's not brand new, but well-kept. Black plastic.

A note sits on top.

Mia,

You said you wanted to see what I see.

I can't show you most of this place. Rules. Safety. Common sense. Pick one.

But I can show you me.

My fingers tremble as I flip it over.

A Polaroid is taped to the back.

I freeze. My heart pounds in my chest, my hands go slick, heat pools low in my stomach. My body forgets how to function all at once. Because of him.

He's sitting on what looks like a bed, uniform half undone, dog tags catching the light, hair a little too long. His eyes are dark, warm, unbearably tired, and they stare directly into the camera. Directly at me. There's something in them. Something soft. Something I feel in my bones.

“Oh my god,” I whisper.

I sink into the barstool before my knees give out. He's beautiful. Not pretty. Not polished, elegant, or simply hot. He is beautiful in the raw, human, heartbreakingly real way. Like a storm you want to walk into, even knowing it'll wreck you. I trace the edge of the photo with my thumb, pulse fluttering in my throat. This is the man who stood at the window. The man who wrote all those letters. The man who thanked me for gently breaking his heart.

This is George.

I stare at his face until the photo warms under my touch. Behind the shock pounding through my veins, something else blooms.

Want.

Not just sexual, though—yes, obviously that too—but deeper. A want that's bone-deep, emotional, gravitational. A need for him in my life. Not in a romantic-be-my-soldier-boyfriend way. But in this soft, quiet, terrifying way that says, I need you.

I close my eyes. Shit.

I'm falling for him.

I reread his note.

The camera is cheap, but it works. I'm sending it with this letter. If you want to use it, use it. If you don't, throw it in a drawer and pretend I never sent it.

I would like to see you.

Only if you want that too.

He wants to see me.

My body, my face, my realness. After everything he's already shown me. He let me see him first. That vulnerability undoes me.

I pick up the camera. It feels lighter than I expected. Soft in my hands. My reflection flashes in the tiny lens. Messy hair, flushed cheeks, eyes too bright. I'm suddenly nervous. It's just a photo. But it feels like more. Like stepping across a line that can't be uncrossed. Like saying yes without speaking.

I stand by the window, the same place he used to stand, and lift the camera. Take a deep breath, Mia.

Click.