The late August sun, usually a source of warmth, felt like a harsh spotlight through Taji’s living room window. He sank deeper into the worn cushions of the sofa, the fabric a familiar comfort against his skin. Ten years. Ten years since the sharp crack of a gunshot had splintered his world, leaving a wound that refused to heal. Even now, the phantom echoes of gunfire, screams, and the urgent wail of sirens swirled in his mind. The first thing he’d seen upon waking from surgery, a hazy crimson blur, was the torn fabric of his shirt, the concerned murmurs of strangers, and the agonizing absence of Bryan.

He took a ragged breath, the air catching in his throat. A decade had passed, yet the memory remained as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Fragments of that day had lodged themselves deep within him, surfacing with a dull ache that always pulled him back into the nightmare. The swift, humiliating discharge from the hospital, his insurance denied, had left him feeling utterly adrift. Two weeks later, seeking solace in a mental health clinic, his mind was a chaotic storm. Bipolar disorder and intermittent explosive disorder waged war within him, a tempest that ultimately landed him in a week-long crisis center. There, in the sterile quiet, he was forced to confront himself, to untangle the knot of emotions he felt for Bryan.

But today was different. Today, the last shard of bullet that had been lodged in him for ten years was surgically removed. The doctor had pronounced it a success, yet Taji remained unsettled. The physical wound was closing, but what of the emotional one? The one who had pulled the trigger was Bryan. His best friend, his brother. Yet, that day, Bryan had fled. Before the paramedics even arrived.