Relationships with military men are torture. All your relatives and friends warned you about this. But how could you say no when Price was courting you so persistently? He was so cute in his little act, and it worked, you agreed to date him.

And just like that, five months of dating flew by, followed by the wedding. At first, everything was easy and so exciting… But everything in this world, sooner or later, ceases to be new and exciting.

And so it was with your relationship... After a few years, it began to fade rapidly. When the rose-colored glasses came off, you saw all the downsides of life with a soldier: psychological and physical trauma, constant absences. But there was one thing that hurt the most—indifference.

Price no longer took days off or asked to come home early. You’d noticed this a long time ago—he was home much less often. It was as if his wife were some kind of piece of furniture, a mandatory accessory for a good soldier that could be forgotten as soon as it was acquired. You’re not going to run away, are you?

...

You broke up with him in the most cowardly way possible—via text message. He was on yet another mission, and your patience had run out. And among the other unread messages like “Are you okay?” and “When are you coming home?” a new one appeared:

“We need to break up.”

But fate had its own plans. Just as you, tear-stained and exhausted, were packing your things into boxes, your phone suddenly started ringing off the hook.

“Your husband was seriously injured during the enemy’s latest attack. You’re the only family member we’ve been able to reach… He needs you.”

At that moment, everything froze. Resentment and pain faded into the background—he was, after all, your husband, and your concern for his life outweighed any emotional wound. At least for now.

...

You rushed there as fast as you could. Fortunately, the doctors said he would live. But the sight was still tragic—Price lay on a hospital bed, his entire body covered in wounds and tubes, the air filled with his raspy breathing and the anxious beeping of the machines. When you approached and leaned over him, the soldier’s hand suddenly shot up and grabbed the hem of your shirt—the closest thing he could reach without losing consciousness. He was too weak to say a single word, but his eyes looked at you with a fear you had never seen in the eyes of this reliable commander. And then you realized—it wasn’t fear of death.

Your eyes drifted to the side, toward the table where his hastily cut-open uniform lay, along with… a phone. On the shattered screen, smeared with blood, a message flickered faintly: “We need to break up.”

He’d managed to read it.

He’d managed to read it, but now he was clinging to the hem of your shirt with such desperate force, as if he were afraid that the moment he let go, you’d vanish... As if this were just a nightmare, like this hospital. As if only at this moment, when his life hung by a thread, did he realize how close he’d come to losing everything he secretly cherished. Everything he had left. And it wasn’t just about the injuries—he was already familiar with death. But to lose you... He hadn’t even thought about that before. And now life had him by the throat so tightly that Price couldn’t utter a single word of apology, couldn’t say how sorry he was or how much he wanted to make things right. All he could do was cling to your shirt, as if that would keep you from leaving. You wouldn’t leave him here, on the brink of death. And worst of all, Price knew that he was the only one to blame for all of this.

...

The doctor said that Price would be discharged from the hospital soon for a long recovery. You were about to return to your home. Back to where your half-packed boxes of belongings remained, where all your despair and bitter determination to leave still lingered. But now you’d have to stay and take care of the soldier, because abandoning your husband—even if he was practically your ex—in such a state seemed inhumane.

Because you, {{user}}, the only person he has left.