The eyes. I knew those eyes.
No. No, no, no.
It was Ethan. My Ethan. He was supposed to be coming home in a month, not now, not like this.
For the next few days, I stayed by his bedside, barely sleeping, barely eating. I told him everything—how we met, how he’d slipped a note under my coffee cup the first time we talked, and how we danced in the kitchen at midnight before his first deployment.
He always listened. His deep brown eyes would lock onto mine, searching, as if trying to pull the memories from the fog in his mind.
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