We got back from Maine a couple of days ago. Aiden spent the night last night and has been gone all day, busy with work stuff. Caroline is out of the hospital and spending a lot of time alone in her room. I check on her every few hours, bring her food and tea, but she isn’t very interested. According to the hospital staff, she’s all better, physically. But the emotional toll of what happened in Maine will take a lot to recover from. I want her to see a psychologist or a therapist, but I haven’t gotten the courage to bring it up quite yet. She’s not even ready to leave her room yet. I doubt that she has the energy to go talk to anyone. Luckily, there was a psychiatrist at the hospital who prescribed her some medication to calm her down. That should tide her over for some time.

I sit at my desk, looking at the gloomy late fall weather outside. Thanksgiving is over and Christmas isn’t for another month. Holiday decorations are popping up all over town, brightening the mood that the gray weather has put a damper onto. As I stare at the open document in front of me, with barely a paragraph written on my new book, my gaze drops down to my fingers. There it is. Wow.

My heart skips a beat.

It’s still hard to believe that this perfect canary yellow diamond ring is a symbol of my engagement to the most amazing man in the world. I love the antique style of the ring and it must’ve cost him a fortune, but I would’ve loved it even if it were sterling silver and a cubic zirconia. I would’ve loved it even if it were a ring pop. I know that now. I would’ve loved it no matter what, because it was given to me by Aiden Black, the man who stole my heart.

A tear forms at the corner of my eye and I gasp for air. I still can’t believe that this is happening. A proposal was the last thing that I expected. I knew that we were in love, but I had no idea that he was ready for such a commitment. Frankly, I didn’t think I was either until I said yes. His proposal caught me off guard, but not as much as my own reply. And yet, at the same time, it felt like the most normal and natural thing in the world. The word ‘yes’ loomed in my mind even before he finished asking me. I almost didn’t have the patience to wait until he was done.

Okay, enough with all of this, I say to myself. I check my emails to distract myself. There are about twenty from my readers. They are in love with my book and can’t wait for the next installment. This warms my heart. Not many readers know this, but one of the main reasons we, writers, write is for this moment. Writing is a very solitary endeavor where you spend a lot of time alone in your room with your nose buried in the computer screen. But then, once the book comes out, all bets are off. Even the most experienced and famous writers will tell you that (if they dare to admit it to themselves) there’s nothing like hearing from a reader about how much your book has impacted their life.

When I first started, I promised myself that I would reply to each and every one of the emails. My readers took the time to write and I will take a few moments to show them my appreciation. After replying to the first seven emails in my inbox, I open the eighth. This one is different. This one doesn’t just say how much she loved my book even though it does say that.

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I loved your book. I loved the premise and your writing. It really took me away to another world and for that I’m forever thankful. My husband, the love of my life, was recently diagnosed with cancer and I’ve been spending a lot of time with him in the hospital. As you probably know, hospitals are dreary places especially if you’re there helping the love of your life fight for his. And so, the reason why I’m reaching out is that I want to thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Your book took me away to another world and helped me forget about my own life, if only for a brief period of time. It’s an escape that I won’t soon forget and I can’t wait for the next book.

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Tears are running down my face when I finish reading her email. I never knew that my writing could make such an impact on someone’s life, and for her to share this with me, makes my heart swell. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her that it’s all going to be okay. But of course, I can’t. No, I need to express my feelings in words, which isn’t always an easy thing.

For a moment, I think about putting this task to the side and doing it sometime later, but as more tears stream down my cheeks, I know that I can’t.

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I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s diagnosis. I wish there were something I could do. You are a very strong woman and going through this will make you even stronger. I am thinking about you and your husband and hope that everything turns out okay.

You have no idea how much your email means to me. I write partly because I have to for myself and partly for my readers. I love hearing how much you enjoyed my book, but I had no idea that it would help you so much in your time of need. I am truly humbled. I will get back to work ASAP to give you more enjoyment and a moment of escape. Again, my thoughts are with you and your husband and please keep me updated about his treatment.

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After I finish the email, my head is not in a good place to produce fiction (or even mostly autobiographical fiction). I close my computer and say a silent thank you. Even though my life is full of its own struggles, I can’t imagine going through something like this.

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***

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When I come out to the living room, I find Caroline on the couch, flipping through the channels. She’s dressed in pajamas, thick socks, and a bathrobe. Her hair is a total mess, unwashed for many days, and she isn’t wearing a spot of makeup. If you know anything about Caroline like I do, you know that she isn’t one to even exit her room without a full face of makeup in the morning. Despite this, I decide to take her presence in the living room as a good sign.

“Can I watch with you?” I ask. She shrugs. I watch her flip on HGTV, then on local news, CNN, and then back to HGTV. Finally, she seems to settle on a show about a couple looking to buy a house in Costa Rica.

“Is this place really real?” Caroline asks absentmindedly.

“Apparently,” I say. I know exactly what she means. The color of the water that appears on the screen seems unreal, just as unreal as the palm trees gently swaying in the breeze.

“Maybe we can go there sometime,” I say. “Just you and me.”

She pauses for a moment, as if she’s actually considering the proposition. “Yeah, maybe,” she says after a moment. I want to believe her, but I know that she’s just placating me. Still, I choose to believe that one day, when all of this blows over, it will be possible.

We watch one episode and then another and another. I keep wanting to bring up what happened in Maine or what is going on with the investigation now, but I can’t summon the strength. Every time I look over at Caroline, the only thing I can think of is the phrase ‘shell-shocked.’ It’s a term used to describe soldiers returning from World War I, before we got more sophisticated phrases like ‘post-traumatic stress disorder.’ I know that this is what she’s going through, yet the phrase ‘shell-shocked’ seems much more appropriate than PTSD, at this point. Caroline looks lost. Buried somewhere deep within herself. I know that it hasn’t been very long since we got back from Maine. I know that I need to give her time to recover. But I’m impatient. I want my friend back. I want to see her smiling face. Her carefree demeanor. I want to hear her witty comments. And, more than anything, I’m terrified that if I let her disappear into herself like this for any length of time, I will lose her forever.