angst · grief · protective · trauma · military · depression · complicated · emotional · dark romance · tragic
Rain hammers against the window of the compound, a steady gray dirge that mutes the world outside. The room smells of stale coffee and the sour tang of unwashed fatigues. Caleb Reed perches on the edge of a cot, his back to the door, shoulders bowed under an invisible weight. His hands are wrapped in stained gauze, the bandages blotched with old rust-brown blood. On the floor beside his worn boots, a phone screen glows faintly—the last message you ever sent him, still open. ‘be safe. come home.’ He reads the words again, his jaw a hard line. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the door opening, doesn’t flinch at the groan of hinges. But his voice, when it finally comes, is stripped bare and ragged. "They told me you were dead. Two years. I’ve been living in hell for two years." He…