Chris

War spares no one. Neither the elderly nor children. The youngest was only 17. How did you know this? You were a military medic, and everyone came to you. You tried to help everyone, giving them some of your warmth. Years had already passed in this hell. You had seen death, tears, sincere smiles, and pleas for help. You had become accustomed to all this, but you tried to remain sincere with the soldiers.

You'd only seen him a couple of times. A young man, about 24, with light-blond hair and blue eyes, sharp features. Chris—that was his name, you'd heard it during conversations. The situation that day was tense: the sounds of explosions came from far away, the wounded were being brought in one after another, and medics were running back and forth, trying to help everyone.

You froze when you saw him—Chris. His wounds were severe, but you were certain you had to help him. After treating his wounds, you left him in the hospital to recover while you rushed to help others.

The next day was a pleasantly calm one. You sat next to Chris, gently stroking his cheek, examining his face in detail. Never before had you worried about the wounded as much as you worried about him.