I still remember the first time I met David. High school basketball practice, back in Running Springs, and we were paired together for drills. He was a year ahead of me, and the guy had talent, a kind of focus and intensity that made everyone respect him. One day, after practice, he asked me where I was from. I told him Riverside, and his eyes lit up. “No way,” he said, “My sister lives there.”
At first, I thought it was just one of those casual connections—until we realized his sister was Mary, my next-door neighbor. I’d been in love with her for as long as I could remember, and that coincidence, of all things, felt like it sealed something between David and me. We laughed about it, that surreal small world we shared, and I could tell he liked knowing there was someone who saw his family the way he did. From then on, he became like a brother to me, even though I never told him how deeply I cared for Mary. She was this perfect vision in my life, something untouchable yet always on my mind. It was like she lived in every thought, every hope I had as a teenager, and in every unspoken word I shared with David.
Years passed, and David and I found ourselves in the military. He’d gone first, 18X, with that gleam in his eye when he talked about it. He’d always had the grit and ambition to aim high, and there was a special forces program open to him. A year later, I joined up too—19D, the cavalry scouts. After AIT, I was sent to Fort Hood. I remember feeling that weight in my gut, knowing David hadn’t made it through SOF selection. When I saw him there, I asked, “What happened?”
He looked at me, half a shrug, half a sigh, and that was enough. David never made excuses, never dwelled on things, and I respected him even more for that. We didn’t need to say much; we’d come this far, and that was all that mattered.
Then came Afghanistan, October 2009. It was another day in the never-ending grind, just more dust, more heat, and a mission to keep us sharp. I’d been through enough raids by then, and that day felt like it would be routine. The air was thick with tension as we set up along the side of the building. We moved in silence, focused, each step precise. I was first in line, ready to take the lead. But before I could brace myself, David was at my side, tapping my shoulder.
“Move back,” he said, and his voice was calm, steady.
I looked at him, a bit thrown. “No, it’s my turn,” I insisted, knowing the order was right.
But he shook his head, a half-smile on his face. “Nope, my turn. I got you, buddy.”
For a second, I hesitated, feeling something twist in my gut. Maybe I should have fought him harder, but in that moment, I felt a strange calm. David always had my back, and I trusted him. So, I stepped back, and he took the lead.
The door was kicked open, and in that split second, we entered the chaos. David went in first, moving like he’d done it a thousand times before. I was right behind him, keeping close, focused on every corner. Then, it happened. Before I had a chance to process anything, David took a shot to the head. Blood and brain matter sprayed across me. I was so close I could feel the heat of it, the shockwave hitting me like a punch. I didn’t have time to react, couldn’t even let it sink in; I pushed through, numb and automatic, barely conscious of what I was doing.
The rest of the mission passed in a blur. By the time we got out, my mind was locked down, refusing to register what had happened. I remember looking down and realizing I was covered in David’s blood. I couldn’t even process the grief; it was like something inside me shut off, a fuse blown from overload. I was numb, running on fumes, just waiting for my mind to catch up to reality.
A month later, I was injured and sent home, back to California. My life felt like it had been derailed, stuck between one reality and another. I was on light duty, filling out paperwork and supporting soldiers and their families as I worked through physical therapy. Then, one day, David’s father walked in. I recognized him right away—ex-Marine, with that hardened look you couldn’t miss. He had to know what had happened; by then, it had been months since David’s death. But I couldn’t speak to him. He’d told us, both of us, to look out for each other before we shipped out, to keep each other safe. And I’d failed. Worse than that, I didn’t even have the courage to face him like a man, to tell him what had happened, to take responsibility.
I’d been close to Mary and David’s family once, in another lifetime, but now it felt like that world was gone. I never saw Mary again. Maybe it was for the best, but that loss hit me harder than I could admit. She was everything to me, the girl who’d colored my teenage years with hope and love. Back in high school, we used to play volleyball together, her laughter and warmth like the sun breaking through. But that was another time, another life.
David had this favorite song, Anything but Mine, that always brings him back to me. When I hear it now, I remember the good times—the way we joked around, the late-night talks, and the shared dreams. And I think of Mary, how much I loved her and how much of that love is tangled up in memories of David, too. Most of the time, it’s a comforting memory, something that makes me smile. But there are times when it hurts so much I can’t bear to listen to it. That song pulls me back to those moments, the friendship, the love, the laughter, and the ache of what’s gone.
The war took a piece of me I’ll never get back, but it’s the memories that stay with me—the love I felt for Mary, the loyalty I had for David, and the regret that lingers, that never fully fades.
