Project Lazarus

Leona

It's hard now. Sitting here. Alone.

He's been gone for three days. Business trip, he said. Just a simple job in another city. "Won't take long," he promised. "I'll be back before you miss me."

Well, too late for that.

I've missed him since the first night.

I keep looking at the door, half-expecting it to swing open and for him to walk in, grinning like he always does, carrying some cheap souvenir from the airport and a bag of snacks I never asked for but always eat anyway. But the door stays shut.

I made his favorite dinner tonight-lemon butter chicken with garlic rice. It's cold now. I didn't have the appetite to eat. I just wanted to smell something that reminded me of him.

Our dog, Milo, keeps pacing near the door, ears perked like he hears something I don't. Maybe he misses Harryson too. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. I've been doing that a lot lately.

Earlier today, I sat at his desk, flipping through some of his case files. I wasn't looking for anything in particular. I just wanted to feel close to him. His handwriting is messy, full of arrows and scribbles. But it's his. It's familiar.

Then I saw the photo he keeps in the drawer. It's from our anniversary last year. I'm laughing in it-mouth wide open, eyes shut tight-and he's just staring at me like I'm the only thing that matters. That photo always makes me feel warm. Today, it made me cry.

I don't cry much. I'm usually strong. But something about the quiet tonight feels heavy.

Obviously, it's not because of any other thing. It's the love we both share. Sometime ago, I used to think life was like a puzzle. Complicated and hard to finish. But somehow, with Harryson, it all fit together. He was the missing piece I didn't know I was searching for. And once he was in my life, everything just made sense.

We met in the strangest way. I was chasing down a guy who'd stolen my purse. I'm not exactly built for speed-I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and went flying into a trash can. And there he was. Out of nowhere. Long coat, sharp eyes, quick hands. He caught the guy in under a minute, like it was nothing. Just another Tuesday for him. I didn't know then that he ran a detective agency. I just thought, Wow, I've never seen anyone move like that.

He gave me my purse back and offered me a ride home. I said no. I didn't trust strange men, no matter how handsome they were. But he walked me to the train station anyway. Told me his name. "Harryson Cruz. Private Investigator." He even smiled like he knew we'd meet again. Maybe he did.

A few weeks later, we did run into each other again. I was interviewing people for a magazine story on cold cases, and I ended up at his agency-Cruz & Associates. He looked at me like I was the headline. I think I smiled for the first time in days.

That was two years ago.

Now, I wake up in the mornings with his arm around me and think, How did I get this lucky? We're not perfect. We fight sometimes-mostly over who forgot to feed the dog or who left the toothpaste cap off. But it's the kind of fighting that makes room for laughter. That kind that says, I love you enough to be real with you.

Harryson is the kind of man who remembers the little things. My favorite brand of tea. How I like three pillows on my side of the bed. That I can't sleep if there's even a sliver of light coming through the curtains. He pays attention. That's rare, you know?

He's smart, too. Like really smart. When he talks about cases, his whole face lights up. He's got this board in his home office where he pins photos, maps, and strings them together with red thread like some movie detective. Except it's real. He's cracked cases the police gave up on. Found missing people. Stopped blackmailers. Sometimes I help out. I write reports, organize files, even go on interviews with him if he needs backup. We make a good team.

Last spring, there was this case. A woman thought her husband was cheating. Turns out, he was sneaking off to donate plasma to pay for their kid's surgery. I cried when I found out. Harryson handed me a tissue and said, "You've got too much heart for this job." I told him that's why he needs me. So he doesn't forget the people behind the crime scenes.

Some nights we stay up late, just talking. About life. About where we came from. He told me once that he never thought he'd fall in love. Said he didn't believe in it and that it's too risky. But somehow, I made him believe. That meant everything to me.

We don't go out much. We're more the stay-at-home-and-cook kind of couple. I love the way he cuts vegetables with military precision. I tease him about it. He teases me back when I mess up the rice every time. It's a rhythm we've created, this little world that belongs only to us.

And the best part? He makes me feel safe. Like no matter what happens out there-in the loud, cold world-I'll be okay as long as I come home to him.

I texted him earlier. "You okay?" No reply.

Called. Straight to voicemail.

Maybe his phone died. Maybe he's busy. Maybe it's all nothing.

But I can't shake this feeling in my chest. This little knot of worry that tightens more with each passing hour.

He always tells me not to worry. That he's got everything under control.

Still, I wish he'd call. Just so I can hear his voice. Just so I can stop picturing all the things that could've gone wrong.

I sit on the couch and pull a blanket over me. Milo hops up beside me and rests his head on my leg. It's quiet except for the ticking clock and the faint hum of the fridge. The world feels too still. Like it's holding its breath.

I close my eyes and try to remember the sound of his laugh. The way he says my name when he's teasing me. The way he kisses my forehead before bed. Little things. Sweet things.

They say you don't know what you've got till it's gone. But that's not true.

I knew. I've always known what he means to me.

That's why the waiting hurts so much.

Because when something is that good, that right-you just pray it doesn't disappear.

And tonight, I can't help but wonder...

What if it already has?