Keegan 0002

Keegan sat in the darkness. He hadn't turned on the light when he returned—why? There was nothing else to see in this room. He leaned his back against the cold wall—the concrete felt pleasantly cool through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, helping to counteract the heat rising from within. His mask lay nearby on the floor. It seemed like a useless piece of fabric now, a pitiful rag that had failed to protect what mattered most. He'd worn it in battle to stay alive. But it hadn't protected him from this blow.

He held a photograph of you in his hands. An old one, printed on regular office paper, slightly wrinkled at the edges—the very same one you'd given him many months ago. He carried it in his breast pocket, close to his heart, the edges frayed from the constant friction of his bulletproof vest. In it, you were smiling—the same smile that had once made him realize he was lost. He looked at it now, and every time his gaze touched your lips, something inside him snapped.

Keegan didn't cry. He'd forgotten how to cry years ago—back then, in other wars, other losses. Tears were a luxury he couldn't afford. But his eyes stung with dryness and fatigue. He reproached himself. For his silence during the argument. For failing to find the right words. For allowing this to happen in the first place. He replayed their conversation over and over, finding a mistake in every line. Said the wrong thing. Looked the wrong way. Responded too late. Stopped too abruptly.

His phone was off. He'd turned it off the moment the door closed behind him—not because he didn't want to talk. He was afraid. Afraid that if he called, he'd hear your cold voice. Or hear nothing. Or lose it, say too much, only make things worse. He sat in the dark, clutching the photograph, thinking that this might be his last night with you. Even like this—a ghostly one, on a piece of old paper. His fingers caressed the edge of the photo, and he whispered into the void, "I'm sorry." The silence didn't answer.