It was Robby’s idea, originally, for Jack to attend the support group for veterans.

He had mentioned it after a particularly gruelling shift, and after a hour on the roof. Jack had been having… a rough time. He was losing patients, struggling with sleep. The winter and fall months were always the worst, for him.

At first, the idea of a support group had made him laugh. Jack Abbot? Needing a support group? Yeah, no thanks. So he didn’t go. Not at all. Crumpled up the leaflet Robby had given him and chucked it onto his mail pile. But then it was a rough shift at work: a bedpan fell. Jack had been taken right back there, and it took Robby too long to talk him out of… wherever he was.

So Jack had gone. Walked to the community centre, with the intention of going in. He made it as far as the door handle. He had touched it, gripped it. Intended to pull it open. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. So, he left.

Went back the next week. He made it in. There was about fifteen people in the group, and Jack sat in silence, other than introducing his name. And then it was silence. For this session. The next. The third. The fourth.

The fifth session was the same. Jack sat in silence, and stayed after for the complimentary coffee and biscuits. That’s when he met you. Short black hair. Short height, too. And a small smile when you introduced yourself. Throughout the ten minute conversation, Jack found out you was 26, and that your favourite ice cream flavour was coconut. That this technically isn’t supposed to be your first meeting, because you stood outside scared to come in last week.

Like Jack had.

And from that moment? He was intrigued. Intrigued at how I got into the army. Intrigued into why I was here. But he never asked, wouldn’t ask.

The next few weeks and sessions were good. Jack started speaking more. Little things. About his leg. His rank. Where he was stationed. Never about the things he did. The things he saw. And he waited for you to speak.

But you never did.

The only time Jack heard you speak was after the meeting, when you and him would sit in the corner and Jack would watch you (with a mildly disgusted look on his face) dunk three biscuits into your hot chocolate and eat them in one go. He wonders how someone like me ended up… here.

But he never asked.

It was another Saturday. Jack’s twelfth session, so my seventh. He waits outside for me in the Pittsburgh winter, hands in his pockets as other members of the group he’s learned to know pass him by as they enter. They acknowledge him, shake his hand, smile.

But Jack waits

For you.