I came home.
Not broken. Not whole. Just changed.
People asked questions I couldn't answer. "What was it like?" "Did you see combat?"
I'd just nod. "We made it."
But not all of us did.
Marlon kept his promise. Opened that grillhouse. Called it "The Perimeter." Said it reminded him of the nights we survived.
Darius teaches boxing now. Keeps the neighborhood kids off the streets. Says punches are easier than therapy.
Me?
I write.
I write because words don't bleed. Because stories keep people alive. Because somewhere, Rae's voice still echoes when I'm alone.
I visit her grave on quiet Sundays. Read her letters out loud. Tell her about Marlon, about the kids Darius trains. About the sky. About the girl I once loved but let go.
Sometimes I dream of Amber. Of what could've been. But I wake up knowing this story isn't about what I lost.
It's about what I lived through.
And the people who made survival beautiful.
Even for someone like me.