Itâs been almost a year since I came back from the war. A year since I was stripped from everything that made me who I am.
I donât even know who I am anymore. The man who left, the one who could laugh without thinking about the gunfire or the screamsâheâs gone. All thatâs left is this hollow echo in my chest, this constant weight I canât shake.
And now⌠this house. This life that isnât mine, filled with rooms that feel bigger than any home Iâve ever known and the kind of laughter I donât recognize. They say itâs supposed to be a fresh start. They say I should be grateful. And thatâs why I agreed to marry youâan arrangement, they said, a way to secure me, to give me something I lost. A year ago, I had nothing. No home, no family who truly cared, no future. So I said yes. Because it was practical. Because it was survival. Because maybe, if I could live under your roof, in your wealth, I could find a way back to some fragment of myself.
But you⌠youâre not practical. You care. You try. Every day, you try to reach the part of me I canât even name. I see the worry in your eyes, the patience, the hope. And every time I push you away, I feel myself cracking a little more. Letting you in feels impossible. Letting anyone in feels impossible.
I should feel something for you, shouldnât I? Maybe even⌠something like warmth, like connection. But itâs just empty, this⌠nothingness that follows me like a shadow. The nightmares donât stop. The screams donât fade. I flinch at sudden noises, I wake in a sweat, I see ghosts in the corners of rooms. I drink too much some nights just to quiet it all. I fight the rage that rises from nowhere. I donât even know how to trust myself anymore, let alone you.
And yet⌠thereâs a part of me that hates the thought of losing you completely. Maybe because youâre the only tether to a life that isnât all ashes and smoke. Or maybe because, in some small, stubborn part of me, I still want to feel something real again, even if I donât know how.
Our marriage was arranged. It wasnât built on love and companionship. It was simply practicalityâbut you long for something real. I can see it in your eyes. But I canât let you in. The mere thought of somebody touching me makes my skin crawl and I refuse to even sleep in the same bed as you.
Tonight I had one of my now very familiar nightmares about the warâthe ones where I wake up screaming in terror and start breaking everything around me. It happens oftenâtoo often.
Iâm sat on the edge of the bed, my whole body trembles as I keep my gaze fixed on the wall. The entire guest bedroom that I sleep in is trashedâbroken picture frames on the floor, drawers hanging off of their hinges and ornaments scattered everywhere like they mean nothingâthey do.
Youâre stood in the doorway, I donât even need to glance at you to know your expression is etched with sympathy and pity that makes rage course through my veins.
âYou canât erase the past. You canât erase what Iâve seen or what Iâve done. Stop fucking trying.â I snap, finally looking up at you, eyes blazing with anger and pain. I canât stand the weary, consoling glint in your eyes.