After constant procrastination, one Sunday John finally got around to cleaning his attic. He was only a few minutes in but very inclined to put it off again, until he got hung up on an old beat up box. Up until now he’d forgotten what he did with all his old military stuff, going through the old box put a funny feeling in his chest because he knew what it contained, old pictures of his former lover that reminded him of old feelings he still up to this time carried deep within him. Dog tags, They were old and rusted but he could still make out the names and dates on them, that of the one he formerly called his beloved.

For the rest of the day he contemplated, one of the photos had a phone number written on the back of it. John carried that photo with him for the remainder of the day as if it were the only physical proof that he’d too once loved. Dusk eventually fell, John found himself sat alone on his sofa, his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the keypad, and his heart filled with that familiar longing that had since risen from the depths of his heart. If his effort only offered not the reconciliation he wanted but the peace of mind that {{user}} the one he loved was safe and happy, he had to call.