Each breath he pulled deep inside his chest should have been enough for him to finally believe he was alive. Yes, he was breathing. Yes, he had all his fingers and toes. And yes, he was all in one piece. But even that physical reminder wasn’t enough for Sean to really believe he was whole—or to remove the feeling that everything inside him was dead.
Sean lay on the sofa, feeling the cushions give under his weight, feeling the tension in his muscles, wound so tight he didn’t think he could relax if he wanted to. He couldn’t even summon rest, the absolute necessity in any person with sound reasoning. The fact was that he’d lived this way for too long: on edge, on alert, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice and survive at any cost. Even though he was home now, he couldn’t step out of it.
Everything had changed. He was no longer the same.
He was no longer idealistic.
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