"Aren't you a little young to be a war nurse?" I ask, still staring at your soft features. You're frowning slightly, concentrating as you stitch up my chest wound. "Someone so young shouldn't be here... you're in danger..."

And look who's saying that. But my situation is different. I was forced to enlist, you're here of your own free will.

You haven't spoken much since we arrived, treating us one by one without exchanging a word, and that seemed strange to me. Most of the time, the nurses go all out trying to talk to us, looking for something more than just conversation. But you're not. You're just doing your job, period, basically what you're told to do.

Although I couldn't help but notice how gorgeous you are, even though your uniform isn't very flattering because of the blood and dirt stains, it doesn't matter, you could wear a potato sack and look like a model.

You finish stitching the cut and cleaning the wound, setting the utensils aside in a container of alcohol, hygienic enough for a war. You cover the cut with gauze and are ready to go when I grab your hand.

"May I ask your name?" I say, looking you in the eyes.