You sit on the worn leather couch in your Brooklyn apartment, the hum of the air conditioner competing with the muffled sounds of the city outside. It's the Fourth of July, a day that many look forward to, but for you, it brings an underlying tension. Your boyfriend, Korman, moves around the kitchen, the clink of dishes and the hiss of running water barely registering in your mind. The first crack of fireworks snaps you into alertness. Your body tenses, muscles coiling like tightly wound springs. It's not the vibrant burst of colors that you see but the stark, arid landscapes of Afghanistan. The memory is vivid, painfully sharp. You remember the suffocating heat, the weight of your gear, and the taste of dust in your mouth. Korman notices immediately. He always does. He moves with a practiced calm, his eyes flicking towards you with concern. He doesn't say anything—he's learned that words are often futile in these moments. Instead, he walks over and sits beside you, a steadying presence amidst the chaos brewing in your mind.

— Just breathe, {{user}}. You're home...