It’s hard to imagine this place was overflowing only a couple of weeks ago. Now, three of the beds are cleanly made, and only Xavier and Leah are in here.

Leah.

She lies on the bed closest to the door, farthest from the window. She’s all wrapped up in her blanket, like she’s been tossing and turning. Her hair falls in strands across her face. It’s longer than I remember. Her face has fallen in, and it’s more angular. She looks older.

Or perhaps I feel older.

She has one hand above the blankets, clutching the fabric, and I can’t stop myself. I all but dive for it, my fingers curling around hers. I don’t even have eyes for Xavier, who lies two beds down. I want to stand by my sister, be close to her, feel complete again for the first time since the world ended. She’s warmer than I expected, because she looks so pale. At least she isn’t burning up like she was the night they carried her in.

I have so much to tell you.

With my thumb, I rub circles across the back of her hand. I wait for her to open her eyes, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t turn to me.

Leah.

I need to be closer, or I might burst, and the only thing I can think to do is crawl beside her. Careful, balancing on the edge of the bed so I don’t jostle or overwhelm her, but close enough that the warmth her body radiates mingles with mine. Close enough that we’re whole and complete together. It’s intoxicating and right, and it makes me feel like my skin can’t contain me.

I wrap my fingers around hers again. I could fall asleep like this. No matter what happens outside of this room, no matter what happens tomorrow or the day after. It may be selfish, it may be horrible, but I could fall asleep now and feel safe in the knowledge that I’m home with her.

Inside my hands, Leah’s fingers twitch.

I pull back so hard, I nearly tumble out of the bed again.

“Leah?”

She turns her head to me ever so slowly while I teeter on the edge, and I forget how to breathe. To be here with her is everything, and it would be enough. But to see her, to talk to her…

She squeezes her eyes shut, like she’s flinching away from something. Her lips are dry and cracked, and a few strands of hair tumble across her face. With a trembling hand, I reach out to push the hair behind her ear.

That’s when she opens her eyes.

Hazel eyes and so many questions. Her gaze wanders the room before it settles on me. She frowns. She doesn’t push herself up into a sitting position. She stares at me for a long time before I see the recognition click. She opens her mouth, and no sound comes out.

But she opens her hand and reaches out to me, and nothing else matters. There are so many different ways to communicate, and this is our language. She’s my person who understands all the things I can’t say or write or even sign. And I’ll be hers.