I haven’t been good since I let go of her hand.
We get back to base. There’s sand in my throat. Smoke on the horizon. Someone’s talking but it’s background noise. It all is.
The generators hum like dying animals. The prayer call drifts from the village at the edge of the wire. Helicopters throb overhead, a heartbeat made of steel.
I drop down on my cot like my bones don’t work anymore. Stare up at the tarp roof like it owes me answers and then I do something I said I wouldn’t. I reach into the pocket where I keep the only thing I have left of her.
The letter I never should’ve brought.
Crumpled. Worn. Her name on the front in my chicken-scratch handwriting.
Unsent.
Unread.
Un-fucking-finished.
I open it.
The ink’s smudged.
Sweat and dirt and regret smearing what little I managed to say.
I press the page to my chest. Close my eyes and I see her again.
My butterfly.
Soft. Fragile. Wild.
Mine.
The girl I should’ve never touched. The girl I can’t stop craving. The girl I left with nothing but my silence.
You want realism?
This is it.
No sleep.
No peace.
Just sand, sweat, ghosts, and her name echoing in every fucking breath.
And the brutal, choking truth:
I don’t know if I’ll survive this time.
And I don’t know if I want to if she’s not waiting on the other side.
I try to write but the pen shakes in my hand like it’s scared of what I’ll say.
I’ve started this letter a hundred times.
Burned it.
Buried it.
Tore it to pieces and stuffed it back into the corner of my cot like it didn’t mean anything but it does.
