That I love him. I never stopped.
But my brain won’t form the words.
“Please wake up, baby,” he pleads. “I’m not leaving. Not again. So please—wake up and let me see those beautiful green eyes of yours.”
Finally, something lifts. Not all at once, but the edges of the darkness start to fray. I feel the ache of my body, the pull of the tape across my skin, and notice the beeping of the monitors lining up with the rhythm of my heart.
Light.
Pale, dim, painful hospital light as I begin to blink my eyes open.
Everything is blurry as I try to push the tears away, but the first thing I see is him.
He’s real.
Curled in the chair pulled as close to my bed as he can get, head bowed, hand still wrapped around mine like it’s the only thing helping him hold on.
I want to speak.
I want to sayhiorI love youorI’m sorryordon’t let go.
But this damn tube is still in my mouth, the words are stuck in my throat with it.
All I can do is try to squeeze his hand.
It works—barely. Just a flutter of fingers. But it’s enough.
His head snaps up and his eyes meet mine.
Then he stands up too fast and nearly knocks over the IV pole.
“Shit—sorry—you’re awake—fuck—hi—”
His voice cracks again as he scrambles to steady my IV and pull the chair even closer.
“Hi,” he breathes, sounding steadier this time as he gently brushes the hair away from my face and looks into my eyes. “God, baby. You’re awake. You came back.”
I try to smile, but I’m sure it doesn’t look the way I mean it to. Everything is stiff, and my face feels swollen. The tape on my skin itches. My stomach burns, though I don’t know why. I hate the tube in my throat even more now that I’m fully conscious.
I blink at him, hard and slow, trying to say everything that I can’t.
His eyes are already red and glassy, and he never lets go of my hand, as if he’s trying to keep me there with him.
“I really thought I wasn’t going to get to see you again,” he says softly. “If you had been gone before I could fix this… God, I would’ve never forgiven myself.”
I blink again.
Twice.
I’m here, baby. I stayed.
He seems to understand.
“I’m so sorry, Mia,” he whispers. “For everything. For pushing you away when I needed you most. For not calling. For not coming after you when I realized how badly I fucked up. I was scared, andstupid, and I thought—”
He stops himself, not wanting to overwhelm me with too much too soon, I guess.
I want to reach for him. Hold him like I used to. But all I can do is keep squeezing his hand and hope he feels everything I want to say.
