[ he nods slowly, less an answer to her question and more as an acknowledgement of her words. there's a small and bitter part inside him that wants to lash out and tell her that she's lucky she got to enjoy travelling, that she's privileged because she didn't have to fight a war, she didn't travel to see people die.
the stars are bright over their heads and her hand is warm inside his. he can't bring himself to be bitter, to hold on to the reasons why he could or even should be. ]
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the stars are bright over their heads and her hand is warm inside his. he can't bring himself to be bitter, to hold on to the reasons why he could or even should be. ]
I miss some of it.