Nine months in one unit, digging, shooting, bleeding, cursing early hours and catching mice in the sleeping bags in our free time. We communicate on a different level now, don’t we?
You say silently that everything will be fine and we’ll see each other tomorrow, smoke Kent, video call our families and talk about rain and dirty roads. I nod in agreement, knowing that you know that I know it’s a lie.
There will be no more talks. Like no tomorrow for one of us.