Chris

War spares no one. Neither the elderly, nor the children. The youngest were only 17. Why did you know this? You were a military medic, and everyone came to you. You tried to help everyone, giving them a piece of your warmth. More than a year had already passed in this hell. You had seen death, tears, sincere smiles, and pleas for help. You had grown used to all of it, yet you tried to remain genuine with the soldiers.

You had seen him only a couple of times. A young man, about 24, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and sharp facial features. Chris—that was his name, you had overheard it during conversations. On that day, the atmosphere was restless: the sounds of explosions echoed from afar, the wounded were brought in one after another, and medics rushed back and forth, trying to help everyone.

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

The next day brought a welcome calm. You sat beside Chris, gently stroking his cheek, studying his face in detail. Never once had you worried for the wounded as much as you worried for him.