“Your sister wrote to you,” I murmur, my voice breaking in the middle. “Our Lola. Do you want to hear it?”
Of course, he doesn’t answer. But I start anyway, because I need to hear it too.
I read.
Dax,
I don’t know if these letters ever reach you, but I write them anyway. Maybe it makes me feel closer. Maybe it tricks me into thinking the distance isn’t so heavy. Cass tells me stories sometimes—she says you’re still the same stubborn bastard, and I believe her. I don’t know how else you’d survive out there.
Everything here feels different without you. The house is quieter. The streets feel longer. But I’m still laughing sometimes. Cass makes sure of that. She keeps me sane, the same way you always did.
And I have news. I didn’t want to wait until you were home, because if something happens and you don’t know—God, I can’t live with that. So I’m writing it here, messy and rushed and probably the wrong way, but you deserve to know.
I’m getting married.
His name is Aaron. You’d like him, Dax. He’s steady. Good. The kind of man who looks at me like I’m more than the mess I feel like most days. He makes me laugh in a way that feels real. He asked, and I said yes.
It’s happening soon. Faster than I thought. Life feels too short to wait, you know?
I wish you could walk me down the aisle. I wish you could threaten him the way only you can, make him sweata little before he says “I do.” But if you can’t… just know I’ll be thinking of you every step. You’re still my brother. Always.
Come home. Please. Come home to us.
Love,
Lola.
By the end, my voice is shaking so bad I can hardly force the words out.
I fold the paper back up slow, pressing it to my chest like maybe it’ll stop the ache ripping through me.
“She’s getting married, Dax,” I whisper, my voice splintering. “Can you believe it? Married. We’ve only been gone four months and she’s getting married.”
The monitors tick steady. His chest rises. Falls.
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t stir.
And my tears slip free, hot and relentless, dripping onto his wrist where my hand won’t let go.
“Wake up,” I beg. “Please wake up. You can’t miss this. You can’t leave me to stand there without you.”
But he doesn’t.
So I stay.
Holding the letter in one hand.
Holding him with the other and praying to a god I don’t believe in that war won’t steal him before she says “I do.”
The letter is still creased in my palm when the generators cough and sputter like they’re about to give out, shadows bending long across the canvas walls. Somewhere outside, bootspound against dirt, a shout cracks sharp in the distance, and I know it’s not over. It’s never fucking over.
But in here, it’s quiet.
Just the rasp of his breathing. Just the hum of machines pretending they can keep him tethered.
I drag my chair closer, metal screeching across the floor. My thighs tremble when I sink down again. I haven’t stood for more than a piss break in… fuck, I don’t even know how long.
