Time Held Its Breath
It was near the end of our deployment. We were counting the days. The routine had become mechanical—convoys, chow, gym, sleep, repeat. That day wasn’t our turn to roll out. We were inside the post, half-relaxed, standing outside when the mortars came.
The first one hit hard enough to shake the ground. Then another. The air cracked open. I could hear the explosions, but at the same time, everything went quiet. I saw my team yelling, motioning for me to move, to duck, to get inside—but I didn’t. I just stood there, frozen.
It felt like time had paused, like I was watching a film without sound. The colors looked sharper, the world both far away and too close. My heart wasn’t racing. It was the calmest panic I’ve ever felt.
When the noise stopped, I still hadn’t moved. I just stared at them, and they stared back. Then life started again—voices, shouting, the metallic smell of dust and smoke.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Maybe ten seconds, maybe an hour. Later that night, I tried to remember what it felt like, but there was nothing to remember. Just silence, like my mind had decided that one more memory would be too heavy to carry home. But that silence still lives somewhere in me.
