Am I emotionally constipated?
Possibly.
His gaze flicks to the shoebox like it’s calling to him.“You really haven’t opened the rest of the letters?”He points lightly.
The shift in topic throws me.“Not yet.”
“Why?”
I swallow, eyes drifting toward the shoebox.“Because I’m afraid of what happened to Thomas.”
He doesn’t say anything.
He just stays there beside me.The mist-sweet air drifts between us, the city humming below like it’s listening in.
“Want company when you do?”he asks finally.
The way he says it makes something inside me still.
It’s not a push.It's more like him offering a little room to breathe, if I want it.
I breathe out.“Would you stay?”
He nods once.
“Okay.”My voice is a little thin.“Just one.Maybe two.Then we talk music.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, softer now.“Not tonight.”
“If not today, when?”I whisper, lifting the lid.
My fingers find an envelope—thin, careful, almost trembling from time.
The postmark is blurred.September 1967.
The edges have softened.
The crease has grown pale from being opened and closed too many times.
Alec stays still beside me.
I unfold it.
ChapterNineteen
September 29, 1967
Lina,
I tried writing “dearest”again, but the word feels flimsy.It doesn’t hold enough.“My love” crossed my mind, but that sounded staged, like something borrowed from a greeting card instead of something meant only for you.
So today, it’s just Lina.
I got your last two letters on the same day—best surprise I’ve had since arriving.We’d just come back from patrol when the mail truck pulled in, all dusty and dented.The guys crowded around it like kids circling a Christmas tree.It’s September, I know, but that’s what it feels like when letters show up.When something from home appears in a place that keeps trying to swallow the days whole.
Honestly, I almost didn’t go.Part of me kept thinking there’d be nothing for me—that maybe a letter got lost or your parents found ours and tossed them out one by one.
Then the sergeant called my name.Twice.I don’t think I’ve ever moved faster in my life.
