It's in the little things.
The way War and Peace suddenly disappears from his desk. Solitaire is erased from his computer. His desktop background is no longer solid red.
The way he avoids diplomatic missions. Stops drinking coffee late at night. Refuses to touch Athosian pottery.
The way he quit goofing around. Doesn't visit the control room on his days off. Stops dialing in early just to "touch base."
The way he won't enter Sam's office without summons. Avoids the balcony. Bypasses certain quarters.
The way he doubles his sparring sessions. Eats lunch on the go. Is too busy for movie night.
The way he no longer looks up when he walks through the wormhole. Doesn't anxiously anticipate the journey back. Never smiles reassuringly on his return home.
The way his sleep is troubled. Haunted by the moment he left her behind. Unaware he still screams her name out loud.
War has taught him how to keep on living. To continue to function. Constantly move.
But a city of memories keeps him bleeding. Perpetually breaking. Alone--and falling apart.