You’ve never witnessed a releasing formation before; it’s your first time. You’re here with your friend—she asked you to come because, among all those men in uniform, her boyfriend is waiting.

There’s a cool breeze in the air, making your hair softly brush against your face and neck. After only five minutes, soldiers and families are scattered all around the stadium. You can hear the soft laughter and chatter of children—the happiness of seeing someone so important to them again after months apart.

Suddenly, your friend starts running and disappears into the crowd. You sigh and sit on a bench, crossing your arms as you wait for her and her boyfriend to come back, so you can finally go home.

Looking around, you see men in uniform everywhere—some holding roses, others hugging their wives and children. A sudden weight fills your chest, making you huddle deeper into your jacket. You’ve never felt the warmth of a father’s embrace or a kiss on the forehead before going to bed. You grew up surrounded by the screams of a toxic family, one that gave you nothing but fear and insecurity.

You stare at a little girl running around her father, laughing. Then she stops in front of him and gently pulls on his uniform. The man picks her up, and the girl wraps her arms around his neck. You wonder what it must feel like to be in her place. Loved. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry, the urge to go home growing with each passing second.

Then, something catches your eye. In the middle of the field, a man in uniform is still standing at attention. It’s not the classic green uniform—the fabric is black and looks rougher than a traditional one. A mask covers his face, a skull mask.

Among all the families and couples, he’s still there, with nobody to greet him. In that moment, you wonder if he’s feeling the same way you are. No one here to love him, hug him—to free him from that suffocating position he’s obliged to hold.