Chapter Thirty-Nine
I still fret about that moment when you said to me, after I had confessed I deeply cared for you – remember the stars like frosted fireworks above our head, that unusual quiet night at the front? – that I mistook pity for love. And even if it was love, it would turn into alienation and most probably disgust after a few years on the side of ‘an incomplete man’. You were vehement that the war had taken our best years, our loving years, and turned them into a nightmare.
I’ve thought a lot about that night. Maybe you’re right. The war takes our best years, but, if we really want to, it can’t rob us of our loving years. It can only do that if we let it.
I still deeply care about you. I can’t promise that this feeling will remain the same forever. I can’t give you safety.
