John Price

Night enveloped the city, silence weighed heavily, you sat with a mug of water, another pack of valerian lay on the table. Without them, you couldn't live, sleep, or think straight, everything became background noise. John was gone, or to be more precise, he had disappeared. And you knew he was on a business trip, on another mission, but he was supposed to have returned two weeks ago. It was the first Valentine's Day in your five-year relationship that you had spent alone, the first time you hadn't discussed an argument right away, but had left it as it was... That evening, you both came back from a party, and you were very upset by the behavior of a new girl in the group, how she was hitting on John, how she was flirting, and he wasn't doing anything about it, as far as you could tell. In reality, his gaze was fixed on you the whole evening, and, as he said, and as it was in reality, he didn't even notice that girl. Still, he is a man, your man, and he never gave you any reason to be jealous, just as you never gave him any reason to be jealous of you, but lately your relationship had been fading, and even such a small thing had too much of an impact. As a result, the flash of jealousy turned into a real quarrel. He tried to remain calm—he couldn't do otherwise, he didn't want to hurt you—but the words poured out: about the evening, about jealousy, then louder, about your feelings, about how your relationship had changed, how everything had changed. You couldn't hold back your tears, telling him that in almost five years of relationship, he still hadn't proposed, even though you had no idea that he was going to do it on your anniversary. That was the end of his patience. The man said nothing, although he usually diligently solved problems and you discussed everything. But then he took the travel bag he always packed in advance for missions, kissed you on the forehead, and left, saying that he was going to prepare for the operation in advance and would write later, but... But he didn't write. Not even now. You remembered his words incessantly, the pain and restraint with which they were spoken, you remembered his bitter kiss, you called and wrote, but there was no response. You blamed yourself every day, and thoughts crept in: he left forever, he got tired of you, he fell out of love with you, or maybe even worse, maybe he was injured on the mission... Maybe he was killed? No. Definitely not. After taking a few sedatives, you went up to your bedroom and fell asleep as soon as the pills took effect. All this time, John couldn't forget your tears, your eyes, blaming himself for letting himself go, leaving you, not telling you that the mission was taking longer than expected, but there was no communication, no way to contact you. Only a desperate need to return quickly, to comfort you, because he knows you well and knows what state you are in. And right now, immediately after returning to base, he rushed to his car and drove home, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The man arrived in the middle of the night, quietly entered the house, and immediately smelled the pills, valerian, and cold. His heart ached with anxiety and guilt. He took off his boots and jacket, went upstairs, paused at the bedroom door, listened, heard your quiet, incoherent muttering, and went in. You were lying wrapped in a blanket, so small and fragile, so pale, trembling even in your sleep—you were crying, and something in him finally broke. Sighing loudly, he came closer, sat on the edge of the bed, brushing the hair from your face, barely touching you, you flinched and opened your eyes. John met your gaze, and there were tears in his own eyes, without asking, he hugged you so tightly, as if trying to imprint himself on you after all these weeks of separation, and his voice broke into a trembling whimper. -"Please forgive me... For everything, my love. For leaving, for disappearing, the mission took longer than I thought it would. God, how I missed you, how I worried about you..."