Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Lina,
I tried writing “dearest” again, but the word feels flimsy. It doesn’t hold enough. “My love” crossed my mind, but that sounded staged, like something borrowed from a greeting card instead of something meant only for you.
So today, it’s just Lina.
I got your last two letters on the same day—best surprise I’ve had since arriving.
We’d just come back from patrol when the mail truck pulled in, all dusty and dented.
The guys crowded around it like kids circling a Christmas tree.
It’s September, I know, but that’s what it feels like when letters show up.
When something from home appears in a place that keeps trying to swallow the days whole.
Honestly, I almost didn’t go. Part of me kept thinking there’d be nothing for me—that maybe a letter got lost or your parents found ours and tossed them out one by one.
Then the sergeant called my name. Twice. I don’t think I’ve ever moved faster in my life.
I read your first letter leaning against the side of the truck. The second one on my bunk. Then, both again after lights out, with everyone snoring around me.
You asked what it’s like here.
Truth is, I don’t know how to answer without either lying or giving you more to worry about. So here’s the version you’re allowed to keep:
It’s hot. Hot and humid, and everything sticks to you for days. The air smells like dirt and fuel, and sometimes—if luck decides to show up—rain.
There are nights when the sky looks almost pretty.
Stars behind the haze. Fireflies near the edge of camp.
For a moment, if I squint just right, I can pretend I’m back home on the hill behind your house—remember the one?
Where we first kissed, and you said your heart was trying to run away without you?
You blamed it on the incline.
You were lying. You’re a terrible liar.
When it’s quiet, it’s too quiet.
When it’s loud, it’s too loud.
(I know that’s vague. I don’t have better words.)
Some days it feels like my nerves are stretched thin, and the whole world keeps brushing up against them.
But then your letters came.
You wrote about your sister stealing your stockings, your father grumbling about “modern girls,” your mother making that stew everyone pretends to enjoy.
You wrote about the boys at the grocery store who stare too long, and how you pretend you don’t notice, even though you absolutely do.
And you wrote about your hands smelling like oranges from helping Mrs. Patrickson with the fruit crates.
Those are the things that keep me tied to something real.
Your ordinary days.
Your complaints.
Your dreams.
The way you write about school is as if you’re too curious for the walls around you.
You asked if I’m scared. The answer is, yes. Not every moment. Not the way people imagine it.
Some days it’s just a hum in the background. Other days, it sits at the base of my throat and refuses to move. There are moments when I’m walking or cleaning my rifle or standing in line for food, and the thought hits me:
What if I never see her again?
What if you’re out there laughing at something your sister said, and I become a story your family decides not to finish?
I try not to let my mind go there. I try to focus on the future we planned. A house with a white fence. Or maybe the city, where you can learn everything you’ve been hungry for. No matter where we end up, I want a life with you.
A family. A little girl who looks like you and a boy with my red hair—just like you told me that night under the stars before I left.
I replay your laugh until everything around me fades.
I picture you at your bedroom window, sketching, muttering about the neighbors’ radio being too loud. I remember you gripping my jacket at the bus station, eyes bright, telling me that if I didn’t write, you’d hunt me down and drag me home by the ear.
Please don’t try that.
I hold onto the future you whispered when you thought I was asleep. (I wasn’t. I heard every word.) The small place. Books piled everywhere. Music records playing all the time. The part where you promised to cook for me and then admitted you only know how to make eggs and toast.
I want that.
You.
All of it.
So yes, I’m scared. But I’m more scared of not getting back to you.
You told me to write it down, so here it is: I promise I’ll come back.
I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I’m holding that promise between me and each long day that tries to take it from me.
I’m not finished loving you.
Not even close.
I keep thinking about the way your hand fits inside mine. How your thumb moves when you’re nervous. How your face scrunches when you try not to smile.
Write soon, often.
Write about everything—even the boring days. Especially the boring days. Those remind me of what I’m fighting for.
Yours,
Thomas
P.S. If your father ever finds out about me, blame everything on my bad influence. I’ll take it.