The moments after.
After the blast.
After the scream.
After the medics drag what’s left of your brother into the dust and someone shouts “CLEAR” and then…
silence.
That silence will haunt you harder than the blood.
Harder than the screams.
Harder than the memory of what a body looks like before and after it stops being a person.
And you know what’s worse?
It’s not the fear.
Not the sweat on your neck or the weight of your gear.
Not even the way your hands shake when you reload.
It’s the thought.
Her.
That fucking girl with syrup on her skin and stars in her hair.
The one I left on a kitchen table with a goodbye I didn’t mean and a heart I never deserved.
Cassandra.
She’s in every breath.
Every blink.
Every dream I don’t let myself have.
And fuck me, I dream.
Even when I’m awake.
I dream she’s here, in this heat, sitting beside me in the back of this convoy, brushing sand off her thighs and telling me about some stupid book she’s reading while bullets rattle like dice in the distance.
I dream she never said she was leaving. Never said she was gonna put herself in the line of fire because I can’t protect her from here. I can’t fucking breathe knowing she’s out there.
The heat is a different kind of cruel today. My shirt’s soaked. The Kevlar feels like it’s fused to my spine. My boots crunch over gravel like it’s bone.
We’ve been out six hours.
Patrol. Dust. Shitty rations.
Some kid waved at us from a rooftop, holding a phone like he was filming the next time we’d bleed. Every building looks like it’s watching. Every alley holds its breath. Every shadow feelssculpted by someone who hates you enough to wait for the right moment.
“You good, Kingston?”
I nod, even though I’m not.
