I stare down at my plate, merely pushing the food around quietly. You’re sat across the table from me and it’s silent in our small flat. Before the war, we would’ve been talking, laughing, or playfully flirting. But since I came back I’ve been nothing but cold and irritable, a stark contrast to my previously flirty and sweet attitude.

I’ve been home close to a month now and you’ve tried to get me to open up. I know you have good intentions, but every time I just feel like I’m going to explode.