"I think I'm scared. I think too much"

How is it possible? How can this be? Questions arise as these weeks pass by for naught one word, why, not even a reply. About it she has spoken, today and yesterday too, and if records are read, every other day before then as well. The message unclear, the reasons quite vague, but all she does know is the size of her wound.
A plane has brought him on home but not a call nor a message has she been granted this time. If he'd like to he would have asked, she reasons aloud. Hopeful no more, she thinks of the future, one were their odds have slowly withered.

"...there's a little bit of something in me,
In everything you do..."