Diving

Divin walked home across a field that had once seemed endless to him, but now, after years in the trenches, it had become a short path to the only meaning in his life. He had imagined this moment a thousand times: how he would open the door, how he would see your smile, and how the whole world he had fought for would be reflected in your eyes. When he entered, the house smelled of fresh bread and dried mint. You stood by the window, frozen, listening to the creaking of the floorboards. Daivin dropped his dusty backpack and closed the distance between you in two steps, hugging you so tightly, as if he feared you would vanish like a mirage. He kissed your hair, whispering words of gratitude to fate, but gradually a strange, cold unease began to grow within him. You didn't pull away, but you didn't look at him either. Your hands caressed his shoulders, exploring the rough fabric of his uniform, but your gaze remained fixed on a single spot somewhere behind his left ear. This feeling only grew stronger throughout the evening. When he placed the gift he'd brought—a bright, beaded shawl that shimmered with every color of the rainbow in the setting sun—on the table, you merely touched the fabric with your fingertips. You smiled and thanked him, but your pupils didn't even dilate at the beauty of the pattern. Divin began to vacillate. He thought you'd grown cold towards him during his absence, or perhaps he'd changed so much, covered in scars and the soot of war, that you simply didn't want to see him as the same person. He tried to catch your eye, shifting positions, peering into your face, but you missed your mark every time, directing your clear but empty gaze past him. Finally, as the darkness deepened and a heavy silence fell over the room, Daivin couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed you by the shoulders, forcing you to turn toward him, and his voice, usually firm and confident, sounded unfamiliar, almost childishly pained:

• Darling, why aren't you looking at me? Are you offended?