24. Mia
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mia
There’s a particular kind of letter from George that hits differently.
It’s not exactly because of what he says, though God knows every word he writes seems to find some new place beneath my skin; it is how he says it. The things he almost admits. The spaces between sentences. The words I can tell cost him something to put on paper.
Tonight’s letter is one of those.
I find it in my mailbox after work, folded thick inside an envelope with my name written across the front. My fingertips tingle the second I see his handwriting. I take the stairs instead of the elevator because I can’t wait the extra twenty seconds.
The loft door barely clicks shut before I’m tearing it open. I sit on the couch, cross my legs beneath me, and read.
Mia,
Today felt wrong. Nothing terrible happened, but it reminded me how fast things can change out here.
It made me think of you. Of the window. Of how I picture you standing there, and somehow I don’t feel so alone.
My chest tightens, but I keep going.
I want you to know something. If things ever go bad, if something ever stops me from writing, it won’t be because I didn’t want to.
It won’t be because I forgot you.
I don’t think I could anyway.
My breath stalls.
For a moment, I just stare at the page.
There’s something frightening about seeing the possibility written down. Until now, I’ve managed to keep the danger of where he is somewhere distant and abstract. I know he’s deployed. I know what that means. But knowing and letting myself imagine are two different things.
George has never made me imagine before.
Not like this.
You help more than you think. Your letters are the best part of my days here. I look for them even when I know nothing’s coming.
You matter to me, Mia.
Even if I don’t have the right words to explain it yet.
—George
Something inside me gives. The feeling moves through me slowly, hot and overwhelming, until my skin feels too tight and my heartbeat is everywhere.
I pace once across the loft, his letter still in my hand, then stop at the window. The window that used to be his. The one he pictures me standing in front of when the loneliness gets bad. I press my forehead to the glass, and watch as the city glitters below. “I want you,” I whisper.
The words disappear into the empty room.
By midnight, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper. It’s been a while since I got one of his letters, and based on the postmark on this one, he sent it weeks ago, not days.
George,
I don’t know how to respond to your letter without saying too much. Or maybe exactly enough.
You matter to me too. More than I expected. More than makes sense.
I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I know that probably sounds obvious, but the thought of you being afraid out there makes something inside me twist in a way I can’t explain.
Just write when you can.
Please.
—Mia
I’m still deciding whether to wait for his response or simply keep writing. I don’t want to sound or feel desperate, but I don’t want him to feel lonely or forgotten.
I settle for waiting…
I spot the mailman as soon as I enter the building, and this time I don’t even wait for him to put my mail in the mailbox.
“Hey, excuse me, Mia Matthews, do you have anything for me?” he asks me to confirm my apartment number and show him my keys. He hands me a letter and a few pieces of junk mail.
This time, I don’t even make it upstairs. I tear it open in the hallway and start climbing the stairs.
Mia,
I told you I didn’t know how to explain this. The truth is, I think I do. I’ve just been scared to tell you.
Out here, everyone sees the uniform, the rank, the job. They see what I’m supposed to be. Steady. Controlled. Someone who knows what to do.
Maybe I am those things. Maybe I have to be.
But with you, I’m just me.
I lean against the wall; my heart is beating way too hard, and I’m out of breath.
Not a soldier. Just a man writing letters to a woman he’s never met and somehow feeling less alone because of it.
You hear me, Mia. Really hear me. I don’t think you understand how rare that is.
I think about you more than I should.
I wonder if you think about me like that too.
I want to know you completely.
Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I’m asking for too much when I’m halfway across the world and can’t offer you anything real.
But I can’t stop wanting it anyway.
—George
That night, I sit at the kitchen table again, re-reading his letter, and writing one that shows every feeling I’m no longer keeping to myself.
George,
I do think about you.
All the time, actually. More than makes sense for two people who’ve never met.
You said I hear you. The truth is, I think you hear me too. I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling invisible. Then your letters started arriving, and somehow I felt seen.
I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t know where it’s going or if it can even go anywhere. I’m scared I’m building something in my head that might not survive real life.
But I’m more scared of not telling you the truth. You matter to me, George. You matter so much it terrifies me. I don’t want to stop writing to you. I don’t want to stop knowing you.
You said you want more.
I want more too…
I want all of it.
—Mia
I seal the envelope before I can change my mind.
This time, I don’t wait. I walk straight downstairs and send it into the world even though I know the letter will sit there until tomorrow morning.
“There’s no going back from this.”