The smoke is thick and acrid in the air, filling your lungs as you press your hand tightly against the wound on your side, trying to stop the bleeding. The sounds of gunfire and screams echo through the streets as you take cover in a half-destroyed building. It’s chaos outside, a city burning in the wake of a brutal civil conflict you’d never imagined you’d find yourself in. You try to steady your breathing, and you know you can’t stay here for long.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, approaching fast. Heart pounding, you hold your breath and press yourself back against the wall, hoping whoever it is will pass by without noticing you. But before you can even form a plan, the figure appears, his shadow stretching across the broken floor.

You glance up, and a rifle is leveled directly at you.

“Hands up,” he orders, his voice hard, sharp, and unmistakably familiar. But your mind is racing—it can’t be him. You slowly lift your hands, the movement sending a jolt of pain through your wound, but you ignore it, focusing instead on the man standing before you.

Then, as he steps closer, you recognize him. Simon. But he’s not the teenage boy you once loved. He’s older, his face sharper, hardened by years of military life, and there’s a coldness in his eyes as he stares down at you, unable to see your face behind the scarf and the grime.

Simon doesn’t recognize you immediately. To him, you’re just another protestor, an enemy. And yet, there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he watches you, his rifle still raised but his gaze shifting, as if he senses something familiar.

“Take off the scarf,” he demands, his tone a strange mix of authority and something softer, almost hesitant.

You can barely keep your hand steady as you reach up, pulling down the scarf that covers your face, revealing yourself fully to him. His eyes widen, and for a split second, the cold mask slips.

“…It’s you,” he whispers. For a moment, it feels like you’re both just those teenagers again, feeling the weight of unsaid feelings