It fucking does.
Every time I close my eyes I see hers—wide, wild, hurt—and I hear the stupid things I said that night. The way I backed away from her like she was the threat, when I’ve always been the one made of blood and ruin.
And that’s the truth, isn’t it?
I left her on that table with syrup on her thighs and love in her eyes… and I walked out like it meant nothing because I thought she was going to be safe. I thought if I ripped the bandaid off early, it would hurt less when she forgot me. I didn’t think I deserved her staying.
And now?
Now she’s here.
Not here here—but in the same fucking war zone, in the same damn sandstorm I swore I’d protect her from and I’m the one who sent her running straight into it.
The metal fan above my head makes a clicking sound like it’s counting down the minutes I’ve got left. Somewhere outside, someone yells in Arabic. Another soldier coughs in the tent next door.
The sun’s not even up and I already want to scream.
My hands are filthy.
My head’s worse.
I stare down at the open letter.
The ink blots.
The words look like lies.
Cass,
I don’t know how to start this. I never was good at words, not when it came to you. But I guess I’m writing this in case I don’t come back. In case this place finally swallows me whole. In case the next explosion takes more than just my hearing this time.
I didn’t say goodbye because I’m a coward. I didn’t say “I love you” because I didn’t want to ruin the memory of your smile with the weight of those words.
But I did. I do. I fucking love you, Cass. I don’t know how to stop.
I clench my jaw. Stare at the last line. I don’t know how to stop.
Yeah. That’s the fucking problem.
I slam the notebook shut.
I can’t send this.
I can’t tell her how much I hate myself for letting her go. For letting her sign up for this. For imagining her in camo with a medic’s bag, soft hands covered in someone else’s blood. For picturing her on the other side of a radio call that starts with “we’ve got a casualty?—”
No.
I shove the notebook away. Stand up so fast my boots skid in the sand. The canvas roof of the tent blurs above me. I don’t know if I want to run or throw up or punch a hole through the side of this fucking world.
My knuckles twitch.
My heart pounds and all I can hear is my voice whispering:Promise me you’ll come back.
And hers?
“I can’t promise you that.”
I walk out into the night, past the tents, past the radio room, past the young ones laughing too loud near the mess. I need air. I need quiet. I need to stop picturing her dead because that’s the thing they don’t tell you when you love someone in uniform:
