Nico

February 2nd, 1942

I trudged through the dirty layer of slush that coated the sidewalk, scowling at the red and pink paper hearts that hung in the window of every store I passed in preparation for Valentine's Day. The Will-shaped hole in my chest seemed to grew wider each time a cheesy Cupid illustration grinned at me from a window display.

For the first time since I'd arrived in New York, I felt a wave of relief wash over me when I stepped through the doors of the run-down building I lived in. I shucked off my coat and scarf, and attempted to knock off the ice and snow covering my boots. I hurried to the rickety elevator on the opposite side of the lobby, and punched the button for my floor. The elevator squealed in protest before lurching upwards. A few minutes later, the lift came to a shuddering stop and I stepped onto my floor. I made my way down the hall to my door, avoiding the gaze of an obviously drunk man as he studied me with a blissed-out expression from the opposite side of the corridor.

I stepped over the threshold and wasted no time in kicking off my boots and flopping onto the bed. A sigh escaped my mouth as I closed my eyes and let the ambience of the bustling city outside soothe me.

Will had been gone for a month now. A month without his crooked grin greeting me when I arrived home. A month without his sappy admirations. A month without his strong arms wrapping around my torso. A month without his lips caressing mine.

I rolled onto my side and buried my face into the pillow as if it would protect me from the pain in my chest. The image of inviting blue eyes framed by the cut-out hearts that filled every shop were burned into the inside of my eyelids.

My sulking was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. With a groan, I pulled myself to my feet and answered it. Grover stood outside my apartment, wearing a look of turbulence. "A letter for you," he said, holding out an envelope.

My heart skipped a beat. I tried to contain my excitement as I took the letter and thanked him. As soon as the door was shut, I tore into the envelope. A piece of army-grade parchment fell into my hands. I seated myself on the edge of the bed and unfolded it.

Dear Nico,

I don't know who else to talk to. I feel like I can't be honest with anyone else. There are so many things I'd like to say. I'd like to tell everyone that the war isn't all fun and games. I want to remind them that people will die and the rest of us will never be the same. I'd like to tell people that I'm not as optimistic as I seem, that I want to break down and cry. I want to scream at the sky as loud as I can. I want to curse fate and all the shit it's thrown at me. But I stay strong because so many people look up to me. I was told by those around me to fake a confidence I don't have even if it means shoving down my emotions and lying through my teeth.

I don't know if you understand how I feel. Hell, I don't even know if you understand what I'm even saying in this letter. I just need to let it all out. There are so many things I want to say to these people but I can't.

There are so many things I want to say to you, too. I want to say I love you. I wanted to kiss you so badly that day on the platform. I wanted to grab your face and kiss you as if it were our last. I want to hold your hand when we walk through Central Park. I want to dance with you. I want to sing you all the love songs in the world. I want to hold you in my arms and feel your body against mine. But I can't. Until the prying eyes of society leave us, I will have to settle for standing next to you, no physical contact between us, and calling you my friend.

I probably sound insane, which is okay because I probably am. I want nothing more than to be home with you and away from this damn war.

Love,

Will

I pressed the letter to my chest and let out a choked sob. Will hated this as much as I did. I clutched the letter tighter, as if I was trying to force it into my body, right alongside my aching heart.

My mind took me back to that day on the ice. The world blurred around me as our lips met. His scent overwhelmed me, the taste of him pounded through my veins. All thoughts departed from my head except for a steady mantra of Will, Will, Will, Will, Will. Every part of me craved that feeling again. For that, and so much more.

A dusty memory made its way through the love-sick haze. Hazel and I were lounging under a tree in the sticky heat of June. Fluffy, white clouds lazily floated across the sky.

"Did you hear about the woman down the street?" Hazel asked.

I turned my face to look at her, soft grass tickling my cheek, "No, what happened to her?"

"She died of heartbreak," Hazel said.

I snorted, "Heartbreak? You can't die of heartbreak!"

"She did, Nico. Her husband left her, and she spent days crying. She was so upset, her heart just gave up. She died," Hazel protested.

"Whatever, Hazel," I had said, rolling my eyes.

Now, laying in bed with Will's letter in my hands, I understood Hazel was right. I imagined learning that Will was dead, my own heart twisting and clutching in my chest, finally giving out after bearing so much pain.

No. I wasn't going to think like that. Will was going to come home, I would tear the world in half my bare hands if that's what it took to make sure Will returned. He had to come home, the war be damned.