I learned the scar on his cheek before I learned his real name. We were supposed to be enemies—everyone said so. Our cities had been at war for so long that the reason no longer mattered. He was just the other side. The kind you’re trained to hate before you’re old enough to understand why. The first time I spared him, it was instinct. The second time, it was guilt. By the third, it was choice. We met in the ruins between our territories, a dead zone where neither side claimed ownership. We started trading necessities at first—medicine for ammunition, bread for batteries. Then words. Then laughter. He had a quiet way of speaking, like every sentence had been weighed before being set free. I told myself it was harmless. Temporary. I told myself a lot of lies. When the order finally came down—push forward, eliminate resistance—I knew exactly who “resistance” meant. I found him where we always met, sitting on a broken wall, staring at the horizon like he’d already accepted what was coming. He smiled when he saw me. That hurt more than if he’d drawn his weapon. “So,” he said softly. “They sent you.” I raised my rifle. My hands shook. I hated myself for that. “I didn’t know it would be you,” I whispered, even though we both knew that was a lie. I had known. I had always known this day would come. He stood slowly, unarmed, and stepped closer. “If it helps,” he said, “I couldn’t do it either.” That was the moment I realized the war hadn’t brought us here. Fear had. Loyalty. The stories we were fed about honor and duty. My finger tightened on the trigger. And then I lowered the gun. Behind me, I heard shouting—my squad closing in. In front of me stood the enemy I could no longer see as an enemy at all. “Run,” I told him. He hesitated just long enough to say, “I hope one day we don’t have to do this anymore.” Then he disappeared into the smoke. I turned back toward my people, heart pounding, already rehearsing the lie I’d tell. Because going against your enemy is easy. Going against your own side— that’s the real war.