Once I was a soldier

I met him just before the war. On my way to the border.
We had so much in common. The same boring upstart in middle class hell.

We were in the same unit, in the same uniform, in the same army.
In the chaos he disapeared and everything we had fought for seemed in vain. I lost a good friend and we lost the war. We all went home. Before the war we thought we would be heroes and save the world.

Four weeks ago I met him on the train to work. I barely recognized him. He was in a poor state. He told me he liked himself better when he was drunk. In a sober state he could feel fear and anxiety. He said he had been thinking a lot about going to therapy so I told him that I would listen.

Last night he told me that he thinks our sessions are good for him. And I told him I think it does me a lot of good too. He said he felt much better now but I know he was lying. There was still a lot of happiness leaking on the inside.