The platform was a sea of khaki; of young men due to grow old before their time. Boys - they were mostly boys, and had lied about their age to seek the glory of war.

"I love you." He whispered, and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb.

“Don’t leave me.” I prayed, words tumbling from lips moving of their own accord. For my body was numb, unfeeling, detached from this hell that had become my reality.

There was pity in his eyes.

I feared that he pitied not for the life lost – a good life, a lived one- but that he pitied me. I did not want his pity. I did not want his love sent through postcards, waiting for months at a time to receive mail that was not his death certificate. I did not want to wait for him, because I wanted there to be nothing to wait for...his return. I wanted him to stay.

Understanding flickered across his face. He saw his reflection through my eyes; how war did not kill a soldier himself. It killed his mother, his sister, his wife, his friend. War was not just fighting the enemy, it was fought your emotions, your imagination and the loneliness of the unknown.

And then the whistle blew and the steam heaved and the sea parted and the air shifted.

And his lips brushed mine, for the last time. And he was gone.