We got married when I was twenty-six. She was twenty-one. Not the kind of marriage people dream about—more like a deal, a transaction. I needed a wife so my family would stop breathing down my neck. She needed a green card. Simple. Practical. No illusions. No pretending. The month we actually lived together… it was awkward. Silence stretched between us, words slipping out sharp before I could stop them. I was cold, heavy in a room the way I’ve always been. She didn’t flinch, or at least she didn’t show it. And then the war came. Duty called. Orders didn’t wait for convenience or feelings. I left. No calls. No letters. Nothing. After that, she became part of the background I barely let myself notice. Easier that way. Clean. Cold is safer. Distance is safer. Always has been.

And now… she’s here. In front of her apartment, and fuck—she’s real. Older, steadier maybe, but still hers. I feel it in my chest, low and heavy, heat crawling up my spine. My body tightens, my pulse spikes. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I notice everything—the way she holds herself, the tilt of her jaw, the curve of her neck. I want to reach, to touch, to see if the memory matches the real thing—but I don’t. Cold is safer. Distance is safer. Always has been. And still… fuck. I want her. Always have. Always will.