She sits alone at the round table in the corner.

It's 7:55 in the evening and the night is young. The war has been won and everyone is celebrating, dancing with abandon to the upbeat jazz music. The talking and laughter fill the room and the atmosphere is filled to the brim with happiness and excitement.

She wears her normal attire, the old, worn in, brown leather jacket. Wearing anything else would mean that she's expecting something.

She's not.

In fact, it's ridiculous to be sitting here in a bar when there are reports to write and forms to fill out. She's a very busy woman, especially with the war ending. Endless piles of work wait for her, important peace agreements and compensation papers. She nearly gets up to leave, but then her eyes hit the clock in the corner.

A few more minutes couldn't hurt.

Her eyes are darting to the door every time it opens with young couples entering, holding hands and laughing. They're glad to be reunited, happy to be back with their loved ones.

They don't know pain, hurt, or suffering like she does.

One of the men has blonde hair, and her eyes follow his path around the room for a bit, and she's definitely not letting her thoughts wander back to that certain shade of blonde, or how it needed so many bottles of gel to control it every morning, or how he would run his fingers through it when he was anxious…

She glances back to the clock. 8:03.

Her eyes travel the room of their own accord, her heart jolting whenever she picks out blonde hair or blue eyes in the shadows. But none of them belong to the man she's not looking for. Something tears inside her chest.

She gets up, adjusts her coat, makes her way to the door. She moves on autopilot. She is numb. The night looks exactly the same as when she arrived.

But then, she wasn't expecting anything.