Their love was sweet, the kind of affection and tender adoration that little girls would dream of.
She, with her face to the stars.
And he, who basked in the glorious light of the sun.
They complimented each other like fireflies and summer nights, apple pie and vanilla ice cream.
They were that couple that everyone just knew would end up married and grow old together, simple as that.
But it wasn't that simple, nothing is that simple.
He was taken, cruelly ripped from the arms of his beloved. Whisked away and set down in a far off place where bullets flew and grenades sailed across open space to blast the enemy into pieces with powerful explosives and flying shrapnel.
The awful malevolent beast that took him had a name. That name was War, and what War takes it almost never gives back.
And he was no exception.
"He was a good man." They said to her as the flag-covered box was lowered into the cold Earth.
Like that would make it better. Like anything would make it better.
He was gone, the fireflies to her summer nights, the apple pie to her ice cream.
And they spoke as if they knew him. As if they could understand the pain she was going through. They didn't know. They would never know. They could continue their lives as if nothing had happened.
They had no idea of how it felt to break. How it felt to completely shatter and fall into the pit. The pit of anguish and despair and mourning and utter, utter hopelessness.
To lose the ever-waging battle of life.
And in the newspaper the next morning, along with the article about Colonel Alfred F. Jones' military funeral, a certain Natalia Arlovskaya was listed among the obituaries.
And they were together again.
She, with her face to the stars.
And he, who basked in the glorious light of the sun.