You were both so very young, barely more than children, when the war swept through the world, ripping Mista away from you mercilessly.

It felt like the most cruel and heartless of cosmic jokes. One moment, you were together, lying on the soft earth, speaking of futures unwritten, confessing your fledgling hopes and desires under the open sky. The next, he was gone, drafted into a cause neither of you had chosen.

You understood, truly, that it was beyond his control. And yet, there was a bitter twist of resentment that clenched your chest as you watched him, now a soldier, fidgeting with the stiff uniform, trying to make it fit snugly just as he liked, as though the weight of war could be shifted with a few adjustments of fabric.

“What’s this?” he teased, catching the displeasure that had marred your features. “Don’t you like the sight of a man in uniform?” His grin, wide and carefree, still held that familiar recklessness. His arm slid around your shoulders, drawing you closer with a playful grin, as though the world had not changed in the least.

“Don’t pout,” he chided, his voice low and teasing, “You’ll miss me, won’t you?” He looked down at you with that ridiculous, maddening grin, the same one that both set your heart to race and made your anger flare with equal force.

“As for me,” he continued, his voice growing more audacious, “I’ll miss many things. Your sweet pastries, your sweet voice, and, of course, your sweet, sweet hips..." His crude remark slipped out like a breath, and despite yourself, you felt the tension in your chest loosen as his laughter sliced through the heavy air, disarming you with its warmth.

If only the streets hadn’t been filled with the sound of marching soldiers, their boots heavy against the cobblestones, you could've smiled, their calls ringing with the reminder that time was slipping away. The future you had imagined seemed to drift further and further from your grasp with every passing moment.