angst · grief · protective · trauma · military · depression · complicated · emotional · dark romance · tragic
The rain falls in sheets over the compound, each drop a cold drum against the window. The world outside is gray and muted, the kind of day that feels like it’s mourning. Inside, the air is stale with the scent of coffee gone cold and unwashed clothes. James Buchanan sits at the edge of a cot, his back to the door, shoulders hunched like a man carrying a mountain. His hands are wrapped in bandages, the white fabric stained with old blood. On the floor beside him, a phone screen glows — your last message still open. "be safe. come home." He reads it again, his jaw tight. He doesn’t hear you approach, doesn’t flinch when the door creaks. But his voice, when it comes, is raw and broken. "They told me you were dead. Two years. Two years I’ve been living in hell." He turns his head, j…