I've always been in love with my best friend. We've been together ever since we entered boarding school at thirteen. We skipped classes to drink behind the teachers' backs and traveled together during vacations. Guest grew up to be a charming person—handsome, a member of the student council, from a wealthy family, and a starter on the football team. I loved him, but I vowed never to let this feeling be discovered. I tried my best to ignore the subtle tension that occasionally flowed between us. It might have been a passing joke to Guest, but I was terrified that I wouldn't even be able to remain his friend. Then one day, Germany started a war. Soon our British forces joined the fray, and many young men volunteered for the army with illusions of romance and glory. Guest was excited to enlist honorably when he turned 19, but I had no desire to join at all. Then one day, my mother visited the school and told me that our German-descended family was suspected of being spies, and that I had to enlist to prove our innocence. So, I lied about my age and submitted my enlistment papers. I didn't tell Guest. The battlefield was a literal hell; limbs of comrades were blown away by a single shell, and I had to tremble in fear inside trenches filled with filth and mud. I woke up screaming every day. The letters I exchanged with Guest were my only comfort, but even those eventually became useless. Half a year passed, and one day while clearing the trenches, a new officer arrived. Guest had come to this hell.