Fractured Reflections

The days that followed Sam's visit were slow, like wading through thick fog. Every minute seemed to drag on, a gray blur of monotony and noise that echoed in Ethan's mind. He hadn't touched the gun again since that night. The thought of it lingered, but now it felt distant, like a memory from someone else's life. Sam's words had stuck with him—words that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.

He wanted to disappear. Not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet way that he had perfected over the years. Pulling away from the world, hiding in the shadows of his own existence. But Sam wasn't letting him do that. Every day, there was another message, another nudge. It wasn't forceful, but it was persistent.

The invitation to the wedding loomed in the back of Ethan's mind, like a question that he didn't know how to answer. The idea of being surrounded by people—people who were happy, celebrating love, new life—felt like an alien concept. He wasn't even sure if he knew how to smile anymore. How would he fit into that world when his own felt so dark?

He hadn't responded to Sam's invitation yet. Each time he thought about it, his chest tightened, and he would set the phone down without typing a word. What could he even say? He wanted to be there for Sam, truly, but the idea of stepping into a room full of people who expected him to be something he wasn't terrified him.

Ethan sat at the kitchen table, staring at the blank page of his sketchbook again. The pencil lay in front of him, untouched, just as it had been for days. His mind was too noisy to create anything, but too silent to focus on anything else. The storm inside him was constant, a battle between wanting to disappear and the guilt of leaving behind people who still cared.

The window in the kitchen offered a view of the street below. People walked by, umbrellas raised against the soft drizzle that had started that morning. They seemed so normal, so unaffected by the world around them. It was a lie, of course. Everyone had their own battles, their own storms. But right now, Ethan's felt like the only one that mattered. Or the only one he could feel.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the silence.

He frowned, his eyes flicking toward the door. He wasn't expecting anyone. Sam usually texted before showing up. For a moment, he considered ignoring it, but the persistent ringing continued, tugging at his sense of obligation.

Ethan stood up slowly, walking to the door and peering through the peephole. A delivery driver stood there, holding a small package in his hand. Ethan sighed and opened the door.

"Delivery for Ethan Greene?" the driver asked, holding out a clipboard for Ethan to sign.

Ethan nodded, barely making eye contact, and scribbled his name on the line. The package was small, just a plain brown box with no distinguishing features.

"Have a good day," the driver said with a polite nod, before turning and walking back to his truck.

Ethan closed the door and stared at the box in his hands, confusion settling in. He hadn't ordered anything. He sat back down at the table, setting the box in front of him. There was no return address, just his name and apartment number.

His fingers hesitated on the edge of the tape, a strange feeling curling in his chest. It wasn't fear, exactly, but an unease he couldn't quite place. With a slow breath, he peeled the tape off and opened the box.

Inside, nestled among crumpled paper, was a single item: a small, framed photograph.

Ethan's breath caught in his throat.

He reached in and gently pulled the frame from the box, staring at the image inside. It was an old photograph—one he hadn't seen in years. It was of him and his unit, taken during a rare moment of peace in the middle of the chaos that had been his life in the military. They were all smiling, laughing at something just outside the frame. Ethan barely recognized himself in the picture—his younger face, unlined by the weight of everything that had come afterward.

Beneath the photo was a handwritten note. He unfolded it with trembling hands.

"Thought you might need this. - Sam"

Ethan swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He hadn't expected this—hadn't expected Sam to send a reminder of a time that felt like it belonged to someone else. It was a simple gesture, but it hit harder than he was prepared for.

He set the frame down on the table, his eyes lingering on the faces of his old friends. Some of them weren't here anymore. Some of them hadn't made it back. Ethan's throat tightened as memories flooded in—memories he had spent years trying to forget.

The photo seemed to stare back at him, a reminder of who he used to be. Or maybe who he could have been, had things been different.

Ethan stood up abruptly, pacing the small kitchen. His hands twitched at his sides, the familiar agitation rising in his chest. He wanted to run, to get out of his own head, but there was nowhere to go. The apartment was too small, too suffocating. His thoughts were too loud, too overwhelming.

The sound of his phone vibrating on the table pulled him out of the spiral. He grabbed it, half-expecting it to be Sam again. But it wasn't.

It was his therapist.

He stared at the screen, his finger hovering over the "Answer" button. He hadn't called to reschedule his last appointment. He hadn't even planned on going back. But now, faced with the reality of his isolation, he felt the walls closing in.

With a deep breath, he pressed the button and held the phone to his ear.

"Ethan, it's Dr. Howard. I was just following up to see how you're doing."

Her voice was calm, steady—everything that Ethan wasn't. He cleared his throat, trying to push down the knot that had formed there.

"I'm… I don't know," he admitted, his voice hoarse.

There was a pause on the other end, as if she was giving him space to gather his thoughts.

"I noticed you missed our last session. I wanted to check in, see if there's anything you need to talk about."

Ethan's grip on the phone tightened. There was so much he wanted to say, so much that had been swirling in his mind for days. But now, with the opportunity in front of him, the words felt stuck, trapped behind the wall he had built up over the years.

"I don't know where to start," he finally muttered.

"That's okay," Dr. Howard said gently. "You don't have to have all the answers right now. Let's just talk about what's on your mind."

Ethan glanced at the photo on the table, the faces staring back at him. He could still hear their voices, their laughter, even though it had been so long since he'd last seen any of them. It felt like another lifetime.

"I got something in the mail today," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "A photo. From… before."

Dr. Howard stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

"It's of me and my unit. From when I was still… before everything went to hell."

He could hear the sound of her pen scratching on paper, the familiar rhythm that usually calmed him during their sessions.

"How does it feel, seeing that photo again?"

Ethan let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know. It's like I'm looking at someone else. Someone who didn't know what was coming."

There was a pause, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable.

"It sounds like you're feeling disconnected from that part of yourself."

He nodded, even though she couldn't see him.

"Yeah. It's like… that guy in the photo? He's not me. Not anymore."

"It's common for people who've been through trauma to feel disconnected from their past selves. The person you were before the trauma feels like a different version of you. But that doesn't mean he's gone, Ethan. He's still a part of who you are." Dr. Howard's voice was soft, understanding.

Ethan's jaw clenched, his emotions swirling. He didn't want to be that person again. That version of himself felt too naive, too unprepared for what was coming. But at the same time, he missed the simplicity of it—missed the days when life wasn't so heavy.

"I don't know how to be him again," he admitted, his voice cracking slightly.

"You don't have to be," Dr. Howard said gently. "You're not the same person you were back then, and that's okay. What's important is finding a way to integrate those parts of yourself—to acknowledge where you've been, but also allow yourself to grow into who you are now."

Ethan rubbed a hand over his face, his mind racing. He wasn't sure if he even knew who he was anymore. The war had stripped so much from him—his friends, his sense of purpose, his ability to connect with others. And now, he felt like a hollow shell, just going through the motions.

"I don't know who I am now," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

"That's something we can work on together," Dr. Howard said softly. "It's not something you have to figure out all at once. It's a process. And it's okay to take it one step at a time."

Ethan closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling over him like a blanket. It was overwhelming, but there was a small part of him—just a sliver—that felt the tiniest bit of hope. Maybe it was possible. Maybe he could find a way to keep going, to figure out who he was in this new reality.

"I'll try," he said quietly.

"That's all I ask," Dr. Howard replied, her voice filled with quiet encouragement. "We'll work through this together."

After ending the call, Ethan set the phone down on the table and stared at the photograph again. The faces that had once felt so far away now seemed a little closer, like they were calling him back from the edge. He wasn't the same person he had been back then. But maybe that didn't have to be a bad thing.

Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to be someone else—someone stronger, someone who could live with the memories without being consumed by them.

As the rain continued to fall outside, Ethan sat in silence, the photo resting in front of him like a fragile connection to the past. He didn't know where he was headed, or how he was going to get there. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he might be ready to try.