Rita

The afternoon sun hung low over the lake, painting the water in shimmering gold and the sky in a soft haze of pink. The lake you two had sat by since high school for the reliable afternoon date. But today was anything but normal. You and Rita sat on the old wool blanket she’d brought, her hand resting lightly over yours as the wind rustled through the reeds. The picnic basket sat half-forgotten beside you—its sandwiches and lemonade untouched—because neither of you really cared to eat. It was the kind of day that should’ve been perfect, the kind that belonged to summers and laughter, not uniforms and goodbyes. Rita’s pink dress fluttered at her knees as she leaned against your shoulder, her voice quiet when she finally said, “I wish they didn’t have to take you so soon.” You didn’t know what to say. The orders in your pocket felt heavier than any rifle ever could. You tried to memorize everything—the scent of her hair, the warmth of her cheek against your sleeve, the way the sunlight danced across the ripples. Tomorrow you’d be gone, swallowed up by trains, barracks, and a war that seemed to stretch wider than the sky above you.