That night was quieter than usual…

  But inside him, the storm had reached its final peak.

  He stood in front of the mirror,

  Not looking at his face to recognize himself—

  But to say goodbye to something that died long ago.

  No tears. No words.

  Just a long stare,

  Heavy with all the screams he never voiced,

  And all the bullets he couldn’t return.

  He slowly raised his hand—

  As if wanting to touch his reflection.

  But stopped halfway…

  Because he suddenly understood—

  There was nothing to touch.

  He had become a shadow.

  A faint version of the person he once dreamed of being.

  He sighed—deep and heavy—

  As if releasing years of exhaustion all at once.

  And with strange calmness…

  He closed his eyes and whispered to himself:

  "It’s over… the war is over."

  But the truth is, wars never truly end.

  They just change forms inside you…

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  And continue as silence,

  As empty stares,

  As unfinished dreams.

  He turned his back to the mirror,

  And walked away…

  With slow steps,

  Going far…

  Not just from the room,

  But from himself.

  And inside him, a voice whispered:

  "That’s enough… I need to find the answer…

  I owe myself the repair."

  But even the word "repair" sounded foreign.

  Like a language he used to know…

  But forgot in the middle of the chaos.

  He remembered the days he believed in hope.

  When he thought healing was a matter of time.

  Now he knew—

  Time doesn’t heal everything.

  Sometimes, time just teaches you to hide the wound better.

  He sat on the edge of the bed,

  The same bed that once held dreams,

  Now held only echoes.

  He looked around the room—

  A battlefield in disguise.

  Every object carried a memory.

  Every shadow looked like a ghost.

  He ran his fingers through his hair—

  Not out of frustration,

  But like someone searching for a version of himself

  That might still be buried under the noise.

  And still, he felt the weight of it all.

  The guilt.

  The love.

  The silence.

  The years he lost trying to be strong,

  When all he wanted… was to feel safe.

  No one really noticed how tired he’d become.

  Not physically—

  But soul-deep.

  The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix.

  He whispered again… softer this time:

  “I just wanted peace.”

  But peace was a language no one had taught him.

  So he stood again.

  One last time.

  Not as a warrior,

  Not as a victim,

  But as someone who finally accepted the truth:

  He might be broken…

  But he was still here.

  And maybe, just maybe—

  That was enough…

  For now.