I once asked you to go to war with me—
not with guns or flags,
but with the weight of my own undoing,
my betrayal.
I dragged you to the front lines
of a battlefield I created,
and still—
you stood beside me.
We fought,
we bled truth and sorrow,
and came back
carrying scars no one else could see.
No parades, no medals—
just the quiet ache of survival.
Just us.
And now,
as the ghost of it all stirs again,
a voice from that past
wants to reach you.
He wants answers—
from you, not me.
And I see it for what it is:
not just a call.
But a summons.
A return.
To that scorched place.
To pain.
To memory.
And I ask myself—
how can I ask you
to go there again?
Even if it’s just once more.
Even if it might finish the fight.
You owe nothing.
Not to him.
Not to the past.
You gave everything
already—
to me.
And whatever you choose,
I will stand behind you
this time,
with open eyes,
and gratitude deeper
than the wounds
we shared.