Most of your friends were already married—or expecting. But not you.

You never found the right one. Or maybe you were just too busy… Busy with the war. Busy being a nurse.

It was 1943. The hospitals were overflowing—limbs lost, faces burned, boys too young to be fighting. You worked long hours, patching them up as best you could, haunted by the sounds of pain that never left the ward.

Then one morning, they brought in a new soldier. Hugo

Young. Barely a man. And handsome, even beneath the grime and blood. He had burns across his chest from a nearby grenade blast and a bullet wound in his hand—but nothing life-threatening

You were assigned to care for him.

You hadn't seen him yet—only heard whispers from the others about the "pretty boy" in bed 14. When you finally pushed back the curtain, you saw him wide awake, eyes already fixed on you

“I think you’re here to change my bandages, sir, I—” he started, then froze, blinking. He stared at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing

He hadn’t seen a woman in years.

“Go ahead and sit down,” you said with a small smile

He obeyed immediately, eyes never leaving your face, like you were some kind of miracle

You knelt beside him and began to work....peeling back gauze, inspecting the wounds. Carefully cleaning and rewrapping his wounds.

“What’s your name, miss?” he asked quietly

“That’s not important,” you said, still smiling“All you need to know is that I’m your nurse.”

There was a pause. Then“Will I see you again?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t leering. Just hopeful.

You kept working “You might.”

“Are you married?” he asked, softer this time, maybe with little hope