Feb. 20

Dear Journal,

I’m writing to you from what’s probably the most unsanitary place I’ve ever been. It’s all blood and dirt and sweat and other things that I don’t care to think about or imagine. It’s much worse than the stables or the pigsties back on the farm. Even in their worst, most desolate condition, I would rather suffer through the pigsties.

We can’t move anywhere right now. We’re trapped between enemy forces, so we’re hiding.

Our superiors told us to sleep in shifts, considering most of us haven’t slept in several days. It’s my turn. Bryce’s awake next to me. He’s sitting straight up, almost as stiff as a board. His back is turned though, so I imagine he can’t see me writing when I’m meant to be asleep. He can certainly feel my arm moving though.

It isn’t his turn to patrol, so I don’t have to worry about him now, not as much as I would if he was out of my sight. The fear’s always settled in me, that any string of words I say to him could be the last.

My dear Journal, I’d like to think it won’t end so tragically, that maybe my last words to Bryce will commence after a long, fulfilled life. One that we share together. I’d like to think that I’d punctuate those words with how much I care for him, even if I’m unable to do so now.

Even if I can’t do it now, I’d like to. One day.

I’d like to tell Bryce how I feel one day.

-Adrian