by P. J. Hughes
I left young.
Eighteen,
still green in the eyes
and loud in the chest,
thinking I’d come back
the same way I went.
But I didn’t.
There’s a part of me
still wearing that first uniform,
still standing in formation
with pride sharp as new boots.
Another part
the one that saw too much
and said too little
never made it home.
Not really.
War doesn’t just take lives.
It takes pieces.
A glance.
A laugh.
The way you once trusted mornings.
And when you get back,
people expect a whole man.
But you’re not whole.
You’re split.
The part that understood what mattered
is still out there somewhere
in the noise and dust,
with the ones who would’ve died for you.
And you for them.
You walk through kitchens,
small talk,
school nights,
and wonder
why peace feels harder
than war ever did.
Because back there,
as brutal as it was,
at least it made sense.
Here,
you smile like you mean it,
answer “I’m fine,”
and try not to notice
how the mirror doesn’t quite
recognize you either.
But somewhere in the middle
between the kid who left
and the man who came back
you remember
what it felt like
to be whole.
And maybe
that’s enough to hang on to.
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P. J. Hughes is a writer, veteran, and student of cybersecurity who puts his life into writing raw, unflinching stories. A veteran Navy Aviation Electronics Technician himself, he derives themes of resilience, sacrifice, and mental health from a decade of his service. He blurs personal reality and fiction in writing, frequently relying on his life roles as a father and champion of veteran wellness. Along with writing, Patrick designs, programs, builds retro electronics, and documents life, tech, and recovery and uses sarcasm as a survival mechanism. He presently focuses on cybersecurity alongside continuing to write experience-based fiction and poetry.
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