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metamorphicmuse · 2 months ago

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War-Time Love (Based on a True Story)

Here's a real letter which was written by a World War 2 veteran to his lost lover, a fellow soldier. While rarely documented, this attestation to love among soldiers stands out as a tender, if impossible, reminder that it did occur. I've imagined they must have been part of the Special Services Branch based on historical details. The letter is a real artifact. The images are imagined but no less real.

Dear Dave:

This is in memory of an anniversary–the anniversary of October 27th, 1943, when I first heard you singing in North Africa. That song brings memories of the happiest times I’ve ever known. Memories of a GI show troop–curtains made from barrage balloons–spotlights made from cocoa cans–rehearsals that ran late into the evenings–and a handsome boy with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at a theater in Canastel–perhaps too much muscatel, and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately Municipal Opera House in Oran–a misunderstanding–an understanding in the wings just before opening chorus.

Drinks at “Coq d’or”–dinner at the “Auberge”–a ring and promise given. The show for 1st Armoured–muscatel, scotch, wine–someone who had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible–a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean, and a picnic of “rations” and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough to know the score, but not smart enough to realize that we wanted to be alone. A screw-ball piano player – competition – miserable days and lonely nights. The cold, windy night we crawled through the window of a GI theater and fell asleep on a cot backstage, locked in each other’s arms– the shock when we awoke and realized that miraculously we hadn’t been discovered. A fast drive to a cliff above the sea–pictures taken, and a stop amid the purple grapes and cool leaves of a vineyard.

The happiness when told we were going home–and the misery when we learned that we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night, and the tears that would not be stopped as I stood atop the sea-wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon.

We vowed we’d be together again “back home,” but fate knew better–you never got there. And so, Dave, I hope that where ever you are these memories are as precious to you as they are to me.

Goodnight, sleep well my love.

Brian Keith

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~~What follows below is my imagined story of these two lovers, with the names changed to protect the dignity of the dead.~~

As Time Goes By

Nathan had never expected to be here.

One week ago, he was just another soldier in the North African campaign—following orders, keeping his head down, surviving. His uniform was dust-streaked, his boots worn, his days spent waiting. Then someone heard him singing. Just a quiet song in the barracks, something to fill the empty space between letters from home and the next long march. But it was enough. A lieutenant pulled him aside, asked a few questions, and by the next morning, his papers were signed. He was being transferred.

Now, he stood beneath a makeshift spotlight, on a stage stitched together from sandbags and salvaged wood, dressed in the same uniform but with a different purpose. The GI show was a ragtag affair—curtains made from barrage balloons, footlights crafted from tin cans and spare bulbs. Soldiers filled the seats, some smoking, some waiting, some already half-drunk.

Nathan exhaled, shifting slightly under the warmth of the light. His heart pounded. It wasn’t the audience that made him nervous—he’d sung before, in another life, in school productions and local revues. It was him - Matthew.

Nathan had only been in the troupe a few days, but he knew exactly who Matthew was. Everyone did. He was the leading man, the showrunner, the one who kept things moving, cracking jokes between acts, slipping effortlessly into character when the stage needed him. Matthew owned this world.

And yet—Nathan had felt his gaze on him all evening.

It had started the first day he arrived, during rehearsals. Matthew, watching. Matthew, teasing him—just a little, just enough. Trying to figure him out. But tonight was different. Tonight, Matthew sat in the front row, expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on Nathan as if he were waiting for something.

Nathan closed his eyes, took a breath. And he sang.

*You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss…*

His rich tenor voice lifted through the dimly lit theater, wrapping around the men in the audience, filling the spaces between them, touching something unspoken. The song wasn’t new, but it was fresh in their minds—the war had seen to that. Casablanca had only come out last year, and everyone had felt something in it, even if they didn’t say it aloud.

But for Nathan, and maybe for Matthew too, it was something more. They had grown up knowing that love stories didn’t belong to them. They had spent their youth on stages where the romances they played were never theirs to keep. They had studied love, rehearsed it, recited it in iambic pentameter, and pressed their lips to women in the dim glow of theater lights, knowing it was all just an illusion.

And yet, here they were. In uniform. In a war zone. Listening to a love song that felt like it belonged to them for the first time.

Nathan didn’t see the audience anymore. Didn’t see the dim glow of cigarettes or the quiet, reflective faces of men thinking of sweethearts back home.

He only saw Matthew.

Matthew, who had been caught off guard. Matthew, who had spent weeks running this show, calling the shots, knowing exactly what to expec5—until now. Because Matthew hadn’t expected Nathan. Hadn’t expected this voice, this moment, this feeling curling inside him like something dangerous and real.

The lyrics rolled over him, soft and certain.

*The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by…*

Nathan let the final note hang in the air before stepping back from the microphone, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

The applause came—steady, appreciative, a welcome break from war. But Matthew didn’t clap. He just sat there, staring at Nathan, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable.

And Nathan? Nathan finally understood.

He had never been the leading man before.

But tonight?

Tonight, Matthew had looked at him like he was.

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A Series of Almosts

Things progressed as they usually do.

A glance, held a second too long before Nathan turned back to adjusting the microphone stand. A casual joke at mess, Matthew’s voice pitched just a little lower than usual, meant only for Nathan’s ears. A brush of fingertips when one passed the other a prop backstage, neither lingering but both aware.

A small but meaningful liberty—the kind afforded to soldiers whose jobs weren’t measured in miles marched or rifles fired. It was never much. But in a place where nothing belonged to them, these moments were their own.

Until the night they almost had too much.

They had minutes—maybe less. Matthew had pulled Nathan into the stockroom under the guise of looking for spare canvas, the pretense so thin it may as well have been an open invitation for trouble. The dim light made it easier to forget they were still in uniform, still in the war, still being watched even when no one was there to see.

Nathan was the first to falter. “You know this is a bad idea,” he murmured.

Matthew, standing close enough that their breaths mingled, barely smirked. “That never stopped us before.”

Nathan swallowed. He didn’t move away. Matthew lifted a hand, slow enough to let Nathan stop him. He didn’t. His fingers brushed over Nathan’s sleeve, tracing the place where their hands had met a dozen times before—only this time, neither of them was passing a prop or adjusting a collar or making an excuse. This time, Nathan let him.

This time—The door creaked.

Nathan barely had time to move before two lieutenants stepped inside, both of them carrying the casual air of men who weren’t looking for anything but had already found exactly what they expected.

“Ah, there you are,” the first said, too cheerful, too pointed. He didn’t bother asking why they were here.

Matthew straightened just a little too fast, stepping back to grab a crate, as if this had been nothing at all. “Sir.”

The second lieutenant didn’t even glance at the crates. Instead, he leaned against the nearest shelf and sighed, as if settling in for a long, excruciatingly dull conversation. “You know,” he started, “I was just saying the other day—logistics out here are a damn mess. I mean, supply routes, requisition forms, the whole thing. Just a nightmare, really.”

Nathan stood completely still.

The other lieutenant made a noise of agreement, shaking his head. “And don’t even get me started on fuel rations. God, the paperwork.”

Matthew nodded along, expression perfectly neutral, but Nathan could see the tightness in his jaw.

Neither lieutenant was looking at them anymore. They didn’t have to. The message was clear.

We see you. We won’t say anything. But don’t be stupid.

After droning on about the various papers to be pored over before the night shift, the first lieutenant clapped his hands together, as if that thrilling conversation had settled all matters of logistics and rationing for the evening. “Well. I think we’ve spent enough time on that.”

His gaze flicked to Matthew, then Nathan. Pointed. Brief. Final.

Then he turned for the door. The second lieutenant followed, but not before muttering something under his breath—too soft for Nathan to catch, but it made Matthew’s jaw twitch.

Then they were alone again. The air had changed. Nathan exhaled, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Matthew. His hands were shaking, so he grabbed the nearest crate and made himself useful. Matthew, beside him, did the same.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to. They had been given a warning.

They had also been given a choice. And the next time—when they had another moment, when there was another quiet place, when fate gave them the smallest sliver of privacy again—

Nathan knew exactly what choice he was going to make.

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A Quiet Favor

The base was quiet.

No rehearsals, no performances, no last-minute scrambling to set up a stage. Just soldiers moving through their routines, mail being sorted, the distant sound of a radio crackling out big band music from someone’s tent. No show tonight. No show tomorrow.

Matthew leaned against the doorway of the officer’s quarters, one boot resting against the wooden frame. He had spent just enough time building an easy rapport with Lieutenant Calloway—the kind of officer who liked things running smoothly and saw no reason to make a problem where there wasn’t one.

“The base is quiet today,” Calloway muttered, signing off on a requisition form.

“That it is,” Matthew agreed, casual as ever.

Calloway sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a bad officer. He was a man who appreciated the things that kept his soldiers from losing their damn minds, and the Special Services troupe had been doing just that—keeping spirits up, making the long weeks a little more bearable.

Matthew and Nathan? They were the best part of the show. Nathan had that voice—the one that made men pause mid-drink, made them lean forward without realizing it, made them forget where they were for just a moment. And Matthew? Matthew made it all work. He was the one who made Calloway laugh even when he didn’t want to.

Were they inseparable? Yes. Did Calloway care? Not even a little.

He exhaled, looked up, and smirked. “Let me guess. You want to get off base for a few hours.”

Matthew grinned. “Could be nice to stretch our legs.”

Calloway eyed him, then flicked his gaze toward the motor pool. The captured French convertible sat under the shade of a canvas tarp, a sleek little thing in dire need of a proper wash. It had been one of many vehicles left behind when the Vichy forces surrendered—now a “general-use” car for errands and, occasionally, small liberties.

“Lunch at the coast,” Calloway said, voice dry, as if he already knew the excuse Matthew was about to offer.

Matthew tilted his head. “Something like that.”

A pause. The lieutenant tapped his fingers against the desk, then sighed. “Take the convertible.”

Matthew barely held back a smirk. “Obliged.”

Calloway pointed at him with the end of his pen. “Back before sundown. I don’t want to have to explain why my best performers disappeared into the goddamn Mediterranean.”

Matthew gave him an easy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Nathan was waiting by the barracks, already knowing, already anticipating. He straightened when he saw Matthew approaching, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We got it?” Nathan asked.

Matthew tossed him the keys. “We got it.”

And just like that—They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t performers.

For one afternoon, they were just two men with a borrowed car and the open road ahead of them.

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A Stolen Afternoon

The road curved, dipping toward the coastline, the sea stretching wide before them—deep, endless blue, sunlight glinting off the waves like scattered gold.

Nathan slowed the convertible as they neared a small cove, a secluded stretch of beach where the sand sloped gently into the water. The wind carried the scent of salt and warm earth, the air thick with the kind of quiet only found far from war.

Matthew grinned before the car even stopped moving. “Come on,” he said, already reaching for the door handle. Nathan barely had time to cut the engine before Matthew was out, boots crunching against the sand as he stepped onto the beach, hands on his hips like he was staking a claim on the entire Mediterranean.

Nathan shook his head, smirking as he climbed out, stretching his arms above his head. The sun felt different here—hotter, brighter, like it had never known war, never known uniforms or rules or anything beyond this moment.

Matthew turned back toward him, then glanced at the waves, then back at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That the water’s probably freezing?”

Matthew’s grin widened as he hastily untied his boots. “Only one way to find out.” And then he bolted.

Nathan laughed, kicking off his boots before running after him, sand shifting beneath his feet as they raced toward the shore. Matthew hit the water first, letting out a startled yelp as the icy Mediterranean crashed around his ankles.

“Jesus—that’s cold.”

Nathan skidded to a stop just as the waves rolled over his own feet, hissing between his teeth at the shock of it. The heat of the sun had lied—the water was sharp and biting, enough to make his skin prickle.

Matthew groaned dramatically, running a hand through his wet hair. “That’s it. I’m staying right here. No deeper.”

Nathan snorted. “Coward.”

“Smart,” Matthew corrected, stepping back to stand beside him.

For a moment, they just breathed it in. The war felt impossibly far away. There were no uniforms here, no lieutenants watching, no stockrooms with creaking doors. Just the rhythmic pull and retreat of the waves, the soft laughter of gulls, and the sound of their own breathing blending with the tide. Nathan started to lose himself in thought, and Matthew edged closer to rest his forehead on Nathan's.

Another cold wave crashed at their knees. Matthew sighed. “I’m starving.”

Nathan shook his head with a small smile. “We’re on a beach in the Mediterranean, and you’re thinking about food.”

“I can appreciate both.”

With that, they waded back onto the warm sand, settling near the car, where their makeshift meal was waiting—ration tins and two bottles of Coke, still lukewarm from the heat of the day.

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Nothing

Nathan cracked his open, the fizz hissing softly in the still air. He took a sip, grimacing. “Tastes awful.”

“Yep,” Matthew agreed, doing the same. He lifted his bottle slightly. “To stolen afternoons.”

Nathan met his gaze, watching the way the sun lit Matthew’s profile, the way the light made everything golden and unreal, a moment slipping between reality and something else entirely.

“To stolen afternoons,” he murmured, lifting his own bottle in return. They clinked them together gently, letting the sound vanish into the waves.

The sun sat higher now, warming the sand beneath them, casting light over their skin, their uniforms, their discarded boots beside the car.

Nathan had leaned back, hands pressed into the sand behind him, his bottle of cola resting half-finished beside his knee. He was still gazing out at the Mediterranean, watching the waves roll in, slow and steady. Matthew had finished eating a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved.

He was watching Nathan. Had been for a while.

Nathan must have felt it because, after a long silence, he sighed and let his head tilt toward him, his expression unreadable. “What?” he asked, though his voice lacked curiosity.

Matthew smirked, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Nathan held his gaze for a second longer before exhaling through his nose. He stretched his legs out, letting his bare toes dig into the warm sand, his body easing further into relaxation.

Matthew shifted, leaning back on one arm while his free hand absently traced lines in the sand between them.

It wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

It was the weight of a stolen afternoon, of borrowed time, of knowing what he wanted and not knowing if he’d ever have it again.

Matthew cleared his throat. “You’re quiet.”

Nathan made a soft, noncommittal sound. “Mm.”

Matthew tilted his head. “Thinking?”

Nathan smirked, glancing at him. “Not everything is thinking, you know.”

“Mm.” Matthew mocked his answer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So what is this, then?”

Nathan exhaled, tilting his face toward the sky. “Existing.”

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A Test

Matthew watched him for another long moment. The sea breeze shifted Nathan’s hair, and the way the sunlight caught on his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat as he breathed—

Matthew’s fingers twitched against the sand. He sat up.

Nathan barely moved, only watching as Matthew shifted onto his knees, brushing sand from his trousers. The tension was there, but it wasn’t sharp. It was slow. Heavy.

The kind that sank into your bones and made you feel alive in a way you couldn’t explain.

Nathan didn’t move, didn’t speak as Matthew reached for his wrist.

A test. A question.

Nathan let him.

Matthew traced his thumb over the inside of his wrist, slow, deliberate. Felt the warmth of his pulse beneath his fingertips.

Nathan exhaled through his nose, his lips parting slightly.

Matthew watched his mouth.

Nathan swallowed. “We should—”

“I know.” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but sure.

His fingers slid higher, barely brushing over Nathan’s palm, and Nathan let him.

The tide pulled in.

Nathan’s breath hitched as Matthew leaned in, close enough that he could see the sunlight reflecting in Matthew’s eyes, catching in the lighter strands of his hair.

They weren’t careless.

They weren’t reckless.

They were just here.

Matthew let the moment sit, let it breathe, watching Nathan watching him, feeling the way Nathan’s fingers curled slightly, barely resisting, barely holding back.

The waves lapped at the shore.

Nathan licked his lips.

Matthew made a choice. He didn’t kiss him. Not yet.

But he leaned in, until their foreheads touched, until the sun-warmed space between them was gone, until Nathan sighed—deep, surrendering, wanting.

And then—finally—Nathan lifted his hand, resting it lightly against Matthew’s jaw.

An answer.

A yes.

And this time, Matthew took it.

Nathan didn’t move at first. Not away. Not closer. His fingers rested lightly against Matthew’s jaw, as if testing the weight of his own decision—of his own want. Matthew let him.

The Mediterranean air was warm against their skin, the waves rolling in, the sand shifting beneath them. It was safe here. As safe as the world would ever allow.

Nathan inhaled, slow, steady. Matthew could feel the breath against his lips, the barest quiver of hesitation between them.

Then—Nathan closed the distance.

It was careful. Measured. Deliberate.

A kiss like something discovered, not taken.

Like something they had been waiting to find.

Matthew exhaled against his mouth, leaning into it, feeling Nathan—really feeling him—without the weight of war, of uniforms, of fear pressing between them.

For one afternoon, they were only this.

Matthew's fingers curled against Nathan’s wrist, holding him there as their lips met again—slow, savoring, as if learning the shape of something they weren’t allowed to name.

Nathan sighed against him, his thumb barely brushing against Matthew’s cheekbone, and something in Matthew’s chest cracked wide open.

They didn’t rush. Not this. They let the moment linger, let it settle, let it exist in a way neither of them had ever been allowed to exist before.

And when Nathan finally broke away, it was with a breathless sort of laughter, forehead still pressed against Matthew’s, eyes half-lidded in the golden sunlight.

“God,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, his lips barely brushing against Matthew’s again. “We’re idiots.”

Matthew grinned, breath still uneven. “Biggest ones in the damn war.”

Nathan exhaled, a small smile curving at the corner of his mouth. But his fingers lingered against Matthew’s jaw, as if committing the moment to memory.

Matthew knew they couldn’t stay here forever. Knew that the sun would lower, and the car would have to return to base, and that this moment—this impossible, stolen, sacred moment—would have to end.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Matthew shifted, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth.

Then, just as deliberately as before, Nathan pulled him down into the sand, where the waves rolled in and the world disappeared.

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How Long Do They Have?

Long enough to breathe.

Long enough to linger.

Long enough for Nathan to keep his forehead against Matthew’s, their breath still uneven, their bodies still tangled, their fingers still grasping for something neither of them wanted to let go of.

Long enough for Matthew to let out a quiet, shaky laugh—a sound of wonder, of disbelief, of something unspoken but deeply felt.

Long enough for Nathan to trace the edge of Matthew’s jaw, his thumb skimming the damp skin at his temple, his lips parting as if to say something—but not saying it.

Long enough to not need words.

Long enough for Matthew to close his eyes, to sigh as Nathan shifted against him, as the heat of the sun and the warmth of each other blurred into one.

Long enough to memorize this.

Because there would not be another afternoon like this. They both knew it.

Nathan could feel it in the way Matthew’s fingers curled, but never fully grasped—never fully held him in place. Matthew could feel it in the way Nathan’s breath caught, but never turned into words—never became something permanent.

They had minutes. Maybe longer. But the sun was inching toward its descent.

And Nathan—who had spent his whole life waiting—did not want to wait for the moment this would end.

So they did not move. They only breathed. They only existed in the space they had made for each other.

Because they had made this, together. And if all they had left was his fading golden hour—then they would not waste a second of it.

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The Cooldown

The sun hangs lower now, stretching golden fingers across the sand, spilling light over them in a quiet benediction.

The afternoon wind shifts, cool against their warmed skin, stirring the waves into a gentle call.

Nathan’s fingers flex, brushing against Matthew’s knuckles, and then he exhales, stretching. He turns his head toward the sea, as if remembering where they are, as if remembering that the moment is still theirs.

Matthew watches him for a beat longer. Still memorizing. Still holding on.

But then— Nathan tilts his head back toward him, a slow, contented smile on his lips.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice still drowsy, still wrapped in warmth. "The water’s waiting."

And just like that—he is reaching first this time.

Nathan rises, shaking off the last remnants of stillness, of surrender, of rest, of love settled deep in his bones

Matthew exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as he watches him go. But he follows. Of course, he follows.

They leave their uniforms folded in the sand, wading into the Mediterranean with the same ease, the same inevitability that brought them to each other.

Nathan moves first, stepping forward until the waves lap at his ribs, his head tilting back as the water cools the last traces of fire from his skin.

Matthew watches, standing just behind, before a smirk pulls at his lips and—with one decisive motion—he splashes him.

They push, pull, tumble, weightless in the salt and the sun, until breathless gasps turn to easy floating, until the playfulness settles into something quieter, something softer.

And for a while, there is nothing but the lull of waves, the endless stretch of the horizon, the feeling of existing completely, entirely, within a moment that cannot be taken from them.

The war will call them back soon.

The car will carry them away from this place, this day, this version of themselves that exists only here, in this golden light, in this fleeting, eternal afternoon.

But not yet. Not while the sea still welcomes them. Not while their bodies are still weightless in the salt and the sun.

Not while they still belong to this moment.

And so they go, to wash themselves clean, to cool the fire on their skin, to step together into the waves, knowing that no matter what happens next—

They were here.

This was real.

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The Ring, The Promise, The Memory of the Sea

They return to base regretfully.

The drive back is quieter than the drive there, the air thicker, heavier, full of something unspoken. The road winds ahead, dust curling behind them, the scent of salt still clinging to their skin. They do not rush, but they do not linger.

The world is waiting for them again. By the time they arrive, the golden hour has faded into the cool edge of twilight. The moment has passed, but the weight of it remains.

Lieutenant Calloway watches them approach, standing near the barracks, arms folded. He doesn’t look annoyed. He doesn’t look surprised. "How was the swim?"

Matthew, ever quick, ever the showman, gives a casual smirk. “Good, sir. Refreshing.”

Nathan glances at him—just a flicker, just a beat—before nodding. "Yeah. It was good."

Lieutenant Calloway looks at them both. He sees more than sun-kissed skin. He sees more than wet hair and salt-streaked arms.

He sees the change in them.

The way they stand just a little closer. The way their voices are too steady, too careful. The way they look at each other without looking at all.

But Lieutenant Calloway is no fool. He does not ask what he already knows.

Instead, he exhales, gives a short nod, and mutters, "Good. Glad you made it back before dark - barely. Get some rest. Big show coming up."

And just like that—the world returns.

The normalcy.

The routine.

The performance of daily life.

Nathan sings again. Matthew charms a crowd again. Their days resume, full of staged laughter, careful movements, rehearsed lines.

But the sea has not left them. The rising and the falling of the tide still pull at them.

It stays in Nathan’s voice, in the way he sings just a little differently now, in the way Matthew hears something new in every note.

It stays in the weight of their gazes, the brushes of their hands when passing a prop, the slow, lingering minutes before sleep takes them at night.

And then, one night, after a show, Matthew finds his chance.

The world is quieter in the wings, where the only light is the glow from the stage beyond. The last soldier lingers off, laughing in the distance. Nathan is rolling up a spare cord when Matthew catches his wrist, tugs him back into the shadows.

Nathan stills, looking at him, questioning. He sees something raw in Matthew's eyes, something full of urgency.

And then—Matthew presses something into his palm.

A ring.

Cheap. Small. Nothing. Everything.

Nathan exhales a soft laugh, looking down at it, laughing, touched. “What the hell is this?”

Matthew doesn’t laugh. He watches him—serious, steady, certain.

"I mean it," Matthew says, voice low, voice careful. "After the war. We'll find each other."

Nathan blinks, his fingers curling around it instinctively. He swallows, tries for something easy, something light, but it doesn’t come. Because Matthew means it.

Nathan doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say, I promise.

Because promises in war are fragile things.

But he slips the ring onto his finger. And Matthew sees that for what it is.

A vow. An answer.

A quiet yes when the world does not allow them to speak it aloud.

Nathan keeps it. Wears it.

And within a few weeks, he is gone. His unit is called to a new front.

Because that is how war is.

Because the world does not stop for love.

Matthew watches him leave. Nathan does not look back.

But Matthew knows— That Nathan carries the sea with him now.

That Nathan carries that day with him now.