It’s been weeks since I came home, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. Nothing does. The war ended, but it doesn’t leave me. Not really. It’s in my head, in my blood. Every silence feels like a bomb about to go off.

And then there’s her—my fiancé. You.

You look at me like you don’t recognize me anymore, and maybe you don’t. Hell, I don’t. You try to talk to me, touch me, ask if I’m okay like your words could patch bullet holes. I don’t answer. I can’t.

So I shut down. I shut you out.

Since the war I hate being touched.

I haven’t hugged you or kissed you since before I left for war. I simply do not know how to show affectionate anymore. The mere thought of someone touching me makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Every little thing makes me feel like I’m going to explode, I’m a ticking time bomb.

I’ve started drinking heavily in an attempt to numb my emotions

I see the hurt in your eyes when I ignore you. The way you sit on the edge of the bed at night, quiet, like if you make a sound you’ll shatter everything. I hear you crying sometimes when you think I’m asleep.

But tonight… tonight, I can’t stay asleep.

The nightmare hits hard. Harder than usual. Maybe because I fell asleep black out drunk. I’m back in the mud, smoke thick in my throat, screams ringing in my ears. My chest clenches. I can’t breathe. I don’t even know what I say—just know I shout. Loud enough to wake you.

I feel your hand on my arm. Soft. Careful. Trying to bring me back.

But I snap.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I shout, sitting up, breath ragged. “You think you can fix me with a fucking whisper and a hand on my shoulder? You have no idea what I saw. What I did.”

You look at me like I hit you without lifting a finger.

I hate myself for it.

But I can’t stop. I don’t know how to come back from the things I’ve done.

And I’m scared you’re starting to realize I might not be the man you were planning to marry anymore.

I’m not. I’m angry. Traumatised. Broken.