Pain hammers in my head. My chest aches. I'm bone-deep exhausted. All I want to do is sleep for days and disappear.
I feel the tears before I realize I'm crying.
I hate all of this.
I hate the weakness. The helplessness. The look of sorrow on their faces.
Most of all, I hate the fact that my body is no longer mine.
I reach for the stack of letters on the rolling table by the bed with my good hand.
Lucy's letters.
I slide one free. Her handwriting is neat and soft, every loop and curve familiar. I unfold it carefully and read.
This one doesn't have a postmark. It doesn't have an address. This one was hand-delivered by Jake.
Caden,
I passed by the old caretaker's cottage today. This is where I feel you the most, where your memory is the strongest.
Sometimes when I miss you too much, I go back there. It's quiet. Safe. Like you.
You left something behind last time. One of your old shirts. The one I stole after that first night. It still smells like you, or maybe that's just my memory holding on tighter than it should.
I remember every word we spoke the night we spent here. Every kiss. Every brush of your hand down my spine as if you were memorizing me.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel you. Still hear your laugh. Still picture that porch with wind chimes and muddy boots on the steps. I don't care what that dream looks like now. I just wantyouin it.
Whatever's happening out there, I hope you know and accept this: there is nothing broken in you I wouldn't still love. You are not less to me. Not ever.
Come back to me, soldier.
Yours in every way,
Lucy
I read it twice. Then, a third time.
And then I crumble.
I press the letter to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. That future she wrote about? I lost it themoment that blast hit me. The porch. The nursery. The rocking chairs. The kids running barefoot in the grass.
She deserves that dream. She deserves it with me whole.
I'm not that man anymore.
I don't even know who I am now.
Dropping the letter. I stare at the ceiling until my vision blurs again.
The door creaks. I don't look. Footsteps. A chair scraping against the tile.
Jake.
For a minute, he doesn't say anything. Just sits quietly beside me. Then he lets out a breath.
"You don't have to be perfect, man."
