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.
“I wish I could remember,” he murmured one night, his voice hoarse.
I reached for his hand, careful of the burns. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I remember enough for both of us.”
But something was off. It started subtly—the way he hesitated when I mentioned a childhood memory, how he seemed distant when I talked about our favorite song. And then there were the questions.
“You said I have a dog… what’s his name again?”
I smiled. “Maverick. He’s been staying with my parents while you were gone.”
