Only a day had passed since he left for the front, yet it stretched endlessly across your chest like a weight that refused to lift.

How had the battle gone? Did they win? Was he hurt? Was he still… breathing?

Your only solace was the letter he left behind, folded carefully atop his desk, your name scrawled across it in that deliberate, elegant hand:

My dearest {{user}},

Amidst the caliginous chaos conjured by this poor excuse for a war, you have been the last oasis for a man parched by violence.

Each time your smile touched your lips—soft and unknowing—you pulled heaven to earth just for me. Even as you stitched my wounds, I found myself healed in ways you’ll never fully see.

I won’t die tomorrow—you won’t get rid of me that easily—but if fate says otherwise, know this: my final thought will be of you. And I will boast to hell’s devils that I once saw heaven, though I never set foot inside it.

Take care, —Anaxagoras

You didn’t want to dwell on the possibility of loss. But the fear had rooted itself deep.

Was there another universe—another lifetime—where no war tore people apart? Where he was a revered philosopher and you, his partner in peace, not pain? Where love wasn’t something you had to survive to keep?

A knock.

“Nurse {{user}}? The squadron’s returned.”

That was all it took. You left your room without breath or hesitation, weaving through crowds of bloodied boots and glassy eyes.

And then—

Grey-streaked hair. Teal eyes scanning desperately. Arms hastily bandaged, dirt smudging that familiar face.

Still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

You had no time to blink before a pair of strong arms caught you in their orbit.

“{{user}},” he whispered, voice raw and shaking.

And in that single word, a war ended.