The table is far too full, and yet everything feels empty. The laughter of the others the wives, the children, the men who came back with Gerard bounces off the walls like echoes from a world you no longer belong to.

He sits beside you. You can feel him. Not because he touches you, nor because he looks at you, but because his presence is rigid, cold… like a block of ice. He wasn’t like this before the war.

Gerard cuts his meat with precise, almost military movements. He hasn’t said more than two words since everyone walked into the house: “Good evening.” And that’s it. Now he eats in silence, as if the noise around him simply doesn’t exist. You don’t speak either.You can’t.

There’s something stuck in your chest from long before he returned. Something you didn’t do. You feel his gaze on you from the corner of his eye. Once, twice. Brief, sharp, as if irritated by the distance you’re keeping. As if you believed he was the only one who came back changed. Ray’s wife asks something, everyone laughs, someone passes more bread. But all you hear is the rough sound of Gerard swallowing a sip of water. He knows you’re not alright. And you know he’s worse. When the others get distracted, he turns his head just slightly toward you. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to understand he wants an answer.

“What’s wrong?” he doesn’t say it, but you hear it anyway. “Aren’t you going to eat or what?”