You’d been dating Soldier Boy for months now. At first, it was thrilling—a whirlwind romance with America’s hero, the man who saved lives and inspired a generation. His charm, his rugged looks, his fame—it all pulled you in. You’d thought you could see something in him that others didn’t, the softer side, the man underneath all that bravado.

But as time went on, you couldn’t ignore the emptiness you felt when he wasn’t around. And even when he was, it felt… hollow. He’d show up, flash that winning smile, maybe say something sweet, but he was rarely present, always distracted or just skimming the surface of a real connection. It was always about him—his latest exploit, his next mission, his image.

You put in all the effort you could muster, showing up, listening, even just sitting beside him while he went on about his glory days. But the truth was, he’d never really asked about you, what mattered to you, how you felt. Everything between you was easy for him to brush off or downplay, as if it was just some passing fling.

One night, after a particularly quiet evening together, you’d finally had enough. You looked at him across the room, watching as he laughed at some joke he’d cracked to himself, barely noticing you were even there. "Is this it?" you’d said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He’d barely looked up, only glancing at you with a shrug. "What’re you talking about, sweetheart?"

He called you that—a term of endearment—but it felt empty, just a word he threw around.

"This," you said, gesturing between you two, "it feels like I’m the only one trying. Like… I’m not even sure you care."

He raised an eyebrow, smirked a little. "C’mon, it’s not that serious," he muttered. "I thought you were tougher than that."

And there it was, the indifference, the wall he threw up every time you tried to get close. You could feel your heart sink as the reality set in: this was a man who wasn’t capable of meeting you halfway. Maybe he never had been.