Kruger 0001

Kruger sat at the table, his head resting on his folded arms. His phone lay in front of him. The screen flickered on and off, flickered on and off—every few seconds he returned to the conversation, opening the chat where she had last been online half an hour ago. He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. Every word seemed out of place: too intrusive—"How are you?"; too cold—"Sorry"; too pathetic—"Please answer." His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he replayed their argument in his head for the hundredth time.

He analyzed it like a combat operation. He went over every phrase, every intonation, every gesture that could be misinterpreted. And everywhere he found mistakes. The wrong words. The wrong tone. The wrong pause. He was used to controlling everything—the outcome of missions, the enemy's movements, his own emotions. But now he controlled nothing. Not even his own heartbeat.

Kruger didn't follow you. That decision was harder for him than any order under fire. He thought you wouldn't want to see him. He thought his appearance would only make things worse. He thought you needed time. But now he sat here, in an empty room, and every minute of separation ate away at him from the inside. Like acid. Slowly, inexorably, mercilessly.

He looked at the door you'd left through. It took all his self-control not to jump up and run after you. But he knew that if he ran now, it wouldn't be love. It would be panic. And he hated panic more than failure. And yet, his fingers reached for the phone again. He typed, "I'm here. I'll be here when you want to come back." And then he froze. His finger hovered over the send button. He stared at those words, and they seemed simultaneously the only true and utterly useless.