Wounded soldier

Chapter Thirteen — The Fear of Falling Again

Peace had become a strange kind of habit.

I woke to it, breathed it in, carried it with me through my days like something fragile but familiar. Yet the closer I grew to Lena, the more I felt that quiet unease — that soft whisper of fear that says, don’t trust this too much, it might leave too.

I’d lost before. And part of me believed that anything good was just another prelude to pain.

⸻

It was late one afternoon when Lena told me she’d be leaving town for a few days.

“My aunt’s not been well,” she said, her voice steady as she tied a bunch of wild roses together. “She lives two towns over. I promised I’d visit.”

I nodded. “How long will you be gone?”

“Three days, maybe four.”

It wasn’t much, but something in me tightened anyway. “That’s good of you,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She smiled faintly. “You’ll survive without me?”

“I’ll try,” I said, forcing a small grin.

But when she left the next morning, the shop closed and her laughter gone from the air, the silence that filled the days felt sharper than I expected.

It’s strange how easily we grow used to someone’s presence. The way they breathe in the same room, the sound of their footsteps, the echo of their voice — all the quiet things you don’t realize matter until they’re missing.

By the second day, the house felt heavier. The air didn’t move the same. Even the fern on my windowsill seemed to droop slightly, as if it, too, had grown accustomed to the warmth she brought with her.

I tried writing, but the words came out hollow.

⸻

On the third evening, I walked down to the lake where we’d watched the sunset together weeks ago. The water was still, catching the last streaks of dying light. I sat on the same patch of grass, letting my thoughts unravel.

It had been a long time since I’d felt the ache of missing someone — not because they were gone forever, but because they mattered.

That’s when I realized how afraid I was. Not of being alone, but of needing someone again.

Because needing meant risking loss, and loss was something I’d barely survived the first time.

I closed my eyes and whispered to the water, “Don’t ruin this, Evan. Don’t let fear turn something real into another ghost.”

But fear has its own language. It speaks in silence, in doubt, in the way your heart hesitates even when it’s safe.

⸻

Lena returned on a Wednesday. I was sitting outside the shop when her car pulled up. She stepped out, hair loose from the wind, her face tired but warm.

“Hey,” she said, smiling when she saw me. “Did you water the ferns while I was gone?”

“I did,” I said, standing. “But I think they missed you more than I did.”

She laughed. “I doubt that.”

There was something different about her — a weight behind her eyes, like she’d been carrying something she hadn’t planned to share.

“You okay?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Yeah… I just—” She stopped herself, brushing her hair back. “I’ll tell you later. Let me settle first.”

I nodded, but that small pause lingered in my mind all day.

⸻

That night, she invited me to dinner at her place. It was a small, cozy home — full of half-finished paintings and scattered books. The kind of place that told stories even when no one was speaking.

We sat across from each other, candles flickering between us, the scent of rosemary and garlic drifting through the room.

But she was quieter than usual. Her eyes drifted often, her fingers restless against the edge of her glass.

Finally, I asked, “What’s on your mind, Lena?”

She looked up, caught off guard, then sighed. “It’s my aunt,” she said softly. “She’s getting worse. The doctors don’t think she has much time left.”

“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “You must have been close.”

“We were,” she whispered. “After my brother died, she was the only one who understood what it meant to lose like that. She never judged me for how long it took to start living again.”

Her voice trembled slightly, and I reached across the table, resting my hand over hers. She didn’t pull away.

“She told me before I left,” Lena continued, “that she was proud of me. That she could see I’d finally let someone in again.”

Her eyes met mine — and I saw the unspoken question there.

I swallowed. “She meant me.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was full — not heavy, not awkward, just full of meaning we hadn’t named yet.

Then she said, barely above a whisper, “Does that scare you?”

I thought about lying. But I couldn’t. Not to her.

“Yes,” I said honestly. “It does.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” I said. “Because I’ve spent so long trying to keep my heart from breaking again that I forgot how to let it feel anything.”

She smiled sadly. “That’s not how it works, Evan. You can’t protect yourself from love without protecting yourself from living too.”

Her words hit me deep — because they were true. I’d built my peace like a fragile house around pain, and she had quietly stepped inside it without knocking.

I exhaled slowly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” she said softly. “But it’s worth trying.”

⸻

After dinner, we stepped outside. The night was clear, stars scattered like salt across the sky. The air was cool, sharp with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

She stood beside me, arms crossed against the breeze. “You know,” she said quietly, “my brother used to say something before every gig — ‘If you’re afraid to fall, you’ll never learn to fly.’ I used to think it was just something poetic. Now I think he meant it for me.”

I looked at her, at the way her eyes reflected the stars, and I felt the wall inside me crack — not from pain, but from something tender.

“Maybe,” I said, “it’s time I stop being afraid to fall too.”

She turned to me, smiling faintly. “Maybe it is.”

For a moment, we just stood there — two wounded people beneath a forgiving sky. Then, slowly, I reached for her hand. This time, there was no hesitation. She took it, fingers intertwining with mine, warm and certain.

No promises, no declarations — just quiet understanding.

We didn’t need to call it love. It was something gentler than that. Something real.

⸻

That night, back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her — not in the restless way I’d once thought about Clara, but in the kind of way that feels like remembering sunlight.

I sat at my desk, the window open, the wind moving softly through the curtains. I picked up my pen and wrote:

“Fear is just love in disguise — the part of us that still believes it’s worth protecting.

Maybe falling isn’t losing.

Maybe it’s flying, only slower.”

When I finished, I looked at the words and smiled.

For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.