He tips his head in acknowledgement and leaves. The door clicks shut.
I sigh and let the relief wash over me, feeling as if I’ve just survived a war I’m not done fighting yet.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands locked together like a prayer I don’t know how to say.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” I whisper to myself. “You always said you weren’t going anywhere. Don’t break that promise now.”
A new nurse appears almost exactly fifteen minutes later, as if someone had warned her I might explode if they make me wait even a second longer.
“Mr. Harris?” she asks softly. “We’re ready for you.”
I’m already on my feet before she finishes the sentence. No one tries to follow. The rest of the group just watches me go, quiet, like they know I’m about to walk into the hardest moment of my life.
The walk to the ICU seems like it takes an eternity. Each step echoes louder than it should. Every room we pass holds a person looking like death personified.
Will Mia look like that?
Outside one of the doors, the nurse pauses and turns to me, her hand resting on the handle.
“You might want to prepare yourself,” she says softly.
I stiffen, nod once, and she leads me inside.
The room is dark as the curtains block the early morning glare from coming through the window. The only light comes from the monitors, the green lights pulsing steadily beside the bed. The nurse clicks on the bedside lamp, and there she is.
The girl I would’ve moved mountains to save from this.
My Mia.
Still. Pale. Bruised. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically with the help of the ventilator that’s taped to her mouth.
My knees nearly give out beneath me.
I can’t move.
I can barely breathe.
I feel likeIneed a ventilator.
It doesn’t feel real—that this is really her. Not until I step closer. I see the flecks of dried blood in her normally silky, chocolate hair. The bruising along her temple. The jagged line of stitches above her eyebrow.
I stumble into the chair beside the bed as the nurse quietly backs out of the room to let me have a moment alone with her.
She doesn’t look like herself, but I know it’s her. When she opens her eyes, they’ll still be that brilliant, beautiful green. When the ventilator comes out, I’ll hear the only voice that keepsme sane. She’s still here. I can still see the girl I love underneath all the damage.
I reach for her hand—gently, as if she might break if I touch her. I lace my fingers through hers and rub soft circles into her palm, the way I always do when I’m trying to keep her calm.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “It’s Gray, baby. You made it. I’m right here.”
Her hand doesn’t move. She doesn’t even flinch. Nothing changes.
But I keep holding on like my life depends on it.
Because it does.
I hate hospitals. But I’ll sit in this one forever if it means I get to see her wake up.
“I’ve got you,” I promise her, my thumb brushing her bruised knuckles. “Just like I said baby, I’ve always got you.”
