25. Mia
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mia
few weeks later
At first, I'm not worried.
The mail has been taking more time than usual. Especially from where he is right now. I don’t know where exactly he is, but I know he moved again.
George mentioned schedule changes in his last letter. Some new assignments that included different locations. Maybe he doesn't have access to mail right now. Maybe the letters are sitting in some warehouse waiting to be sorted.
Five days pass, but that’s completely normal. I shouldn't worry for five, six, even seven days. After the eighth day, I started checking the mailbox twice a day. Sometimes three. By day ten, my chest gets tighter every time I open that little metal door and find it empty.
Eleven days.
I reread his last letter. The one where he said, “If something ever stops me from writing… it won't be because I forgot you.”
A knot forms in my throat.
Twelve days.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
I try not to spiral, but I'm failing spectacularly. Every time the elevator dings, my body jolts. Every time mail hits metal downstairs, I freeze mid-step. Every time my phone buzzes with a camera alert, my heart jumps so violently it hurts.
Sixteen days.
My anxiety has its own pulse now. A separate heartbeat living just beneath my ribs.
Seventeen.
I'm barely sleeping. When I do, I dream of envelopes that dissolve in my hands before I can open them.
Eighteen.
I start drafting a letter I don't send.
George, are you okay? I'm scared. Please write me back.
The words look desperate on paper, because they are. I’m desperate.
Nineteen days.
Still nothing.
On the twenty-fourth day, there's an envelope in the mailbox.
But it's not from him.
It's from a military address. Official-looking in a way that makes my stomach drop before I even pick it up. My hands shake as I tear it open right there in the lobby. Inside is a typed notice on official letterhead.
Then the world tilts.
“Sergeant George Hale sustained severe injuries during combat operations…”
“…multiple internal traumas…”
“…medically stabilized for now…”
“…presence of next of kin recommended immediately…”
“…in case of further decline.”
My vision blurs. Tears are filling my eyes too quickly that even blinking doesn’t help. I reread it, then again, and again, until the words stop making sense and just become shapes on paper.
Next of kin.
But there's no name filled in. No emergency contact listed. Just a blank space where someone should have been notified. Because he has no one. I walk backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The letter shakes in my hands.
“He's hurt,” I whisper to the empty hallway. “He's really hurt.”
My chest tightens so violently I think I might pass out. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold floor, the notice crumpling in my fist. Then the next thought hits, horrible, sharp, unavoidable.
Monica.
Should I tell her? But they're not together.
She broke up with him. She told me to throw his letters away.
She didn't even care enough to send the breakup letter sooner.
Would she even come? My stomach twists. He trusted me with the truth.
He spent months writing to me. He told me I mattered to him.
I matter to him.
And he might die.
Alone.
No.
I can't let that happen. I can't sit here and do nothing and pretend I wasn't the one person who knew him. Who heard him. Who cared. The decision isn't clean or brave or rational. It's instinct.
I have to go.
Even if I have no right.
Even if I'm nobody.
Even if it breaks me in half.