29. Mia
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mia
Seconds stretch into hours, or maybe it's the opposite.
Maybe everything is moving too fast, and I'm the only one stuck.
Around me, the hospital continues. People walk past. Living their normal lives while mine is ending twenty feet away behind a door I can't open.
I sink into a chair in the waiting area.
My hands are shaking so badly I have to clasp them together.
The alarms have stopped. The intercom is silent.
But I don't know what that means. I don't know whether silence is good or the worst thing possible.
I came all this way. Twenty-seven hours. Three flights. Halfway across the world, and I still might lose him. I might have arrived just in time to watch him slip away. The cruelty of it sits heavy in my chest. Proximity without access. Presence without power.
I'm here.
But it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. I press my hands over my mouth and try not to scream.
I finally hear footsteps, and I look up. It's a nurse, not the one from the front desk, but someone older, with kind eyes and tired lines around her mouth. “Mia?”
My name sounds strange in her voice.
I nod because I can't speak. “The doctor would like to speak with you.” I stand on legs that don't feel like mine and follow her down a hallway that seems to stretch forever.
The doctor is younger than I expected. Maybe in his mid-forties, with dark circles under his eyes. Scrubs still wrinkled from whatever just happened in that room. But his expression is kind. Tired, but kind.
“Mia,” he says, and I realize the nurse must have told him my name. “I'm Dr. Vega. I've been overseeing Sergeant Hale's care.” I nod. Still can't speak. He gestures to a chair, but I shake my head. If I sit, I'll collapse.
“We were able to stabilize him,” he says. The words hit me like a physical blow. Stabilize. He's alive.
George is alive.
“His blood pressure is holding now. That's good.
But I need you to understand something. He's still in critical condition.” The relief drains as quickly as it came.
“He sustained significant trauma to his abdomen and chest. He had some internal bleeding. We had to perform emergency surgery to repair the damage.”
I'm nodding, but I'm not sure I'm processing any of the information he is sharing with me.
“He lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Vega continues, his voice steady but gentle. “The injuries were extensive. We had to reconstruct several areas. It was—” He pauses. “It was rough for a while.”
My throat tightens.
“But he made it through.”
“Is he—” My voice cracks. “Is he going to be okay?”
Dr. Vega's expression softens. “The next forty-eight to seventy-two hours are crucial. We'll be monitoring him around the clock. If he crashes again—” He stops himself. “We're watching him very carefully. Any sign of decline, we'll intervene immediately.”
“But if he makes it through?”
“If he makes it through this window?” Dr. Vega nods slowly. “Then his prognosis improves significantly. The surgeries went as well as they could have, given the circumstances. If his body can stabilize and start healing, full recovery is possible.”
Full recovery.
The words feel impossible.
“But he needs time,” the doctor adds. “His body has been through significant trauma. We've sedated him to give him the best chance to heal. He won't wake up for at least a few days. Maybe longer. We can’t know exactly when.”
“Can I—”, I swallow hard. “Can I see him?” Dr. Vega studies me for a moment. Then nods.
“Just for a few minutes. He needs rest.” I’m already moving before he finishes the sentence, and when she opens the door, the world stops.
He's there.
In the bed. He looks pale; he is bruised and bandaged across his ribs and shoulder. His dark brown hair is a tangled mess. He has an IV taped into his hand. He looks nothing like his photo except for the shape of his mouth.
My breath breaks.
I move toward him slowly, like approaching something fragile. He looks like someone who fought for his life. Which I know he does, but still, seeing him like this hurts.
A sound escapes me; it’s not quite a sob, but not quite a gasp either. I sit beside him and touch the back of his hand with trembling fingers. He's warm.
“George…” The word barely makes it out.
“I'm here.” Tears burn hot down my cheeks, but I don't have the strength to wipe them away.
It's been three days since I arrived.
Three days since the world tilted, and I thought I'd lose him before I ever really had him. But he's stable now. Stable. The word the doctors kept using cautiously at first, like they were afraid to jinx it. Now they say it with more confidence.
“He's doing well,” Dr. Vega told me this morning. “Better than we expected, honestly. He's strong.”
Strong.
George is strong.
I knew that from his letters, but seeing it, watching his body fight its way back, is something else entirely.
The critical 48- 72-hour window has passed.
No more crashes. No more alarms. Just steady, incremental improvement.
His vitals are holding. The internal bleeding has stopped. The swelling is going down.
Yesterday, they started bringing him up from the sedation.
“Waking him up,” they called it, though it's not like flipping a switch. It's gradual. Controlled. They lighten the sedation bit by bit and watch how his body responds.
This morning, his eyes fluttered open for the first time.
Just for a second.
He was confused. His eyes wandered unfocused through the room, then immediately closed again. But they opened. I was holding his hand when it happened, and I swear I felt his fingers twitch against mine.
“George,” I whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.” I don't know if he heard me. He went straight back to sleep, but I said it anyway.
After that, he didn’t move anymore, and I just let him be.
I haven't left.
I canceled the hotel reservation the first night when the nurse told me I could stay. There's a family waiting room down the hall with uncomfortable chairs that recline just enough to trick your body into thinking it's sleeping.
I shower in the family restroom. The staff sometimes brings me food: sandwiches, soup, coffee. So much coffee. I've lost count. They all know me by now. “Mia,” they say when they pass. “How are you holding up?” I smile. Nod. Say I'm fine.
Because what else do you say? I flew across the world for a man I've never met, and I'm running on fumes and adrenaline and the terrifying hope that he'll wake up and recognize me?
Yeah. That doesn't fit on a small-talk card for a hospital.
My phone buzzes.
Lyann: Hi babes, are you okay? How are you holding up? Are you even sleeping?
Me: I’ve slept a couple of hours here and there. And… I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess…
Lyann: Oh Mia!!!!!
Me: I'm fine. He's stable. That's all that matters.
Lyann: No, it also matters that you are okay.
Me: I’ll be better when he wakes up.
Lyann: What’s the plan for when that happens? Are you just going to be like, ‘hey, I flew across the country for you, and then you almost died’?
Me: Yeap, that’s exactly how I have it prepared in my mind…
I roll my eyes at her text.
Lyann: Okay, all jokes aside, I get it now.
Me: Get what?
Lyann: Why you went. You're in love with him.
My chest tightens. I haven’t even stopped myself from thinking about that. I know I care about him, I know he matters to me, I know the connection we have, but…in love with him?
Am I?
This morning, Dr. Vega stopped by during rounds. “He's doing remarkably well,” he said, checking the chart. “If he continues like this, we'll have him fully awake in the next day or two.”
“And then?” I ask.
Dr. Vega smiles. “Then we see how he does. But I'm optimistic, Mia. He's a fighter.”
After he leaves, I sit back down beside George. His hand is still warm under mine. His chest rises and falls steadily. And for the first time since I opened that military notice in my mailbox, I let myself believe it.
He's going to survive this.
He's going to wake up.
And when he does, I'll be right here.