Alice didn’t stir when I climbed out of bed. I allotted myself one glance back at her: a few seconds for our one-sided goodbye. But her brown hair was black in the dull light of the moon, concealing what the blanket didn’t—almost as if her subconscious was spiting me. It pained me, not being able to see her face one last time, but had I waited around any longer, I might not have gone at all. So I put the note on a dresser; a declaration of love and a reason for leaving. And I left, quietly shutting the door behind me. Though, my hand lingered on the doorknob.

During our childhood, my mother often joked with Alice’s aunt about how we would end up together. At the time, we reacted with disgust, but they were right; we married just days after we graduated from high school. Because we had each other and the house Alice got the deed to her parent's old place on her eighteenth birthday; so there was no reason to wait. And, after our wedding, that next year was everything we could have hoped for; the perfect honeymoon phase. That was, until the war.

I let go of the knob and headed down the stairs, making my choice. She was the love of my life, but I was young, and with a lineage of soldiers pushing me toward the battlefield, my supposed moral obligations outweighed the sentiment of love.

My briefcase sat on the last the step. I grabbed it only to have it slip from my sweaty palm. It clambered to the floor, and my belongings scattered. I jumped down and made a frantic attempt to shove everything back inside, but by the time I shut the clasps, the hallway flooded with light.

Alice stood at the top of the stairs, hair disheveled, her body wrapped in a cotton robe "Michael," she whispered, descending the staircase. "What are you doing?"

I froze, sheepish and terrified; I towered over her small frame, but in that moment it I was like a small child caught scribbling on the wall. Alice’s eyes fell to the briefcase at my feet, and her expression melted into despair. For several moments, we stood like that. Slowly, she knelt down, grabbing a shirt that I had missed in the dark, holding it mournfully, as if I was already in a casket.

"Why?" she asked—no specification, just why; why would I do this to her?

"I didn't want to hurt you," I replied, "but I have to fight."

"So you decided to just disappear?" She clutched the shirt tight to her chest, tears wetting the collar.

I wanted to comfort her, to wrap my arms around her and tell her everything would be alright. But, that would have only made our already onerous situation more difficult. I had already enlisted, in a few days, boot camp would start. Even if I had wanted to stay with her— and in that moment I truly did— doing so would have been an act of desertion. So, as she stood in front of me, sobbing and distressed, I couldn't be comforting. I had to force back my own tears.

"I have to do this," I whispered.

Alice looked up at me, her eyes red and sorrowful. Her voice broke as she screamed, "Says who?!"

I hesitated. "My family—" I started, only to be cut off.

"You and your damn family," she muttered. "You know, my dad was a lot like you: young and moronically prideful."

"Don't," I begged. I knew the story of her parents. And how badly it hurt for her to tell it.

She spoke louder. "He went off to war, and you know what? He came back, but his soul died.” She shook her head. “A few months later, he finished what Germany started, all over our bathroom wall."

"I'm not your father!" I yelled.

"No, you’re not," she muttered, "He had the decency to kiss my mother goodbye before he signed his death warrant."

We were both dejected, staring at each other. I was going to war, and Alice felt she was losing her husband. There were no words left to say. No point in attempting to defend the choices I'd made, no apologies. Nothing.

"I love you," I said, opening the door.

"I love you, too," she whispered, "but I won't be here when you come back."

"I know," I replied, stepping outside.

The door slammed shut, and I walked away from my home, leaving behind the solid brick structure of my past and heading toward uncertainty. I loved Alice, but love had nothing on the asinine honor of a nineteen-year-boy.