No stars.
No softness.
No him.
Just countdowns.
And war.
And whatever version of myself will survive what’s coming.
If any version survives at all.
I shove my duffel into the pile with the others, the canvas slapping against canvas, the sound dull and heavy like a body hitting dirt. One more bag. One more soldier. One more name signed up to be swallowed by somewhere far away.
The air outside the barracks smells like metal and distance — that sharp tang of steel and morning frost, that hollow quiet that comes before departures, that strange, foreboding scent that feels like it already knows not all of us will return.
My boots scrape over the gravel as I make my way toward the lot where Lola’s waiting. Her old car idles like it’s out of patience, the engine humming low, vibrating through the cold air. She’s leaning against the driver’s door with her arms crossed and her eyes hidden behind dark aviators, even though the sun hasn’t bothered to rise yet. She always looks like she’s lived three lives more than the rest of us. Like she’s already walked through the fire I’m willingly stepping into.
Maybe that’s why she’s here.
To give me a send-off no one else will.
To say the goodbye he didn’t.
She flicks the passenger door open with one hand, her elbow still resting on the frame. Her smile is tight and sharp, the kind that barely curves her lips.
“You look like shit.”
I huff a laugh that breaks before it forms. “That’s what I was going for.”
She doesn’t joke back.
She just watches me — really watches — her thumb tapping the steering wheel like she’s counting heartbeats, like she’s holding something back.
And then she says it.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost gentle enough that it doesn’t detonate.
“He made it.”
My heart misfires.
One beat missed.
One beat ruined.
She keeps her voice low. “Dax. I heard from him yesterday. Well — one of the guys did. They’re in.”
Alive.
The word hits hard. Brutal. Beautiful. A miracle and a wound at the same time, punching through my ribs like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk.
I swallow, my throat too thin. “He’s okay?”
