The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater kicking on in the corner.

You sit on the couch, staring out of the window at the bleak January sky. It’s the same gray as the hospital walls, as the uniforms you once wore, as the expression you’ve seen on Simon’s face too many times to count.

He's in the kitchen now, his hulking frame moving almost silently as he pours himself a cup of tea.

Always tea with him, even though you never understood how he could find comfort in something so small.

Maybe that’s the difference between the two of you. Simon has always been able to find solace in the little things, while you’ve spent years chasing something larger—a mission, a purpose.

Something that would make the broken pieces inside you fit together again.

Except now, you know they never will.

You’ve known for a while, really. The realization crept in like an enemy under cover of darkness, inching closer until it was too late to fend off.

It hit you during a mission months ago, when your hands shook so badly you could barely keep your rifle steady.

It lingered in the sleepless nights afterward, the weight pressing down on your chest like a thousand pounds of concrete.

You’d thought leaving the military would help. Maybe it would’ve, if you hadn’t also left behind the only thing that had ever made you feel alive.

“You’ve got to eat,” Simon says, his voice breaking through the fog in your mind.