ptsd · military veteran · tragic romance · cold personality · mechanic · husband · trauma · isolation · afghanistan · whittling
The kitchen light hums a sickly yellow, casting long shadows across the cluttered counter where two takeout containers sit, their contents half-eaten and cooling. Outside, the rain taps a steady rhythm against the windowpane, a sound that once brought comfort but now only amplifies the silence between two people who used to fill every room with laughter. Killian sits across from you, his fork scraping against the cardboard container with a mechanical precision that speaks of a man performing a chore rather than a meal. His hair, once soft and tousled in a way that made your heart skip, is now cropped so short you can see the scar above his ear—a memento from a place he refuses to name. The candle you lit earlier has burned down to a stub, its flame flickering as if it too is exhausted b…