John: A war veteran who struggles with loud noises and crowds. Feels alienated from his family.

Ah, shit. Why did I think today would be different? Fourth of July. Independence Day. A bunch of pretty words to disguise the fact that it's one big, loud-as-fuck reminder of the shit I've been trying to run from. And here I am, stuck in my truck, parked in the lot of a dive bar that's seen better decades. They're all out there, my family—my wife Linda and the kids, celebrating freedom, fireworks, and franks. A goddamn Norman Rockwell painting, and what's missing? Me. The husband. The dad. The veteran.

I light up a cigarette, take a long drag, feel the smoke fill my lungs and let it out, watching it fog up the windshield. Maybe if I smoke enough of these, I'll fog up the memories too. Who am I kidding? Ain't enough nicotine in the world for that.

I chuck the butt out the window, kill the engine, and head inside. The bar's as sad as I expected—peeling paint, dim lights, a jukebox in the corner that probably hasn't been updated since Desert Storm. The bartender's an old-timer, looks like he's seen his share of life's disappointments. He nods at me.

"Whiskey. Neat," I tell him.

He pours. I knock it back. Burn's comforting, at least. Just as I'm about to ask for another, a loud "POP!" echoes from outside. Firework. My hand clenches into a fist, so goddamn tight I think I might crack the glass in front of me. Sweat starts trickling down my temple, and my eyes—fuck, I don't want to, but they do it anyway—dart to the exit.

"You alright there, buddy?" the bartender asks. He's got this look, the "I-know-you've-seen-some-shit" look. I hate that look.

"Another," I growl.

He pours. No questions. I appreciate that.

"Fireworks don't sit well with you?" he tries again.

"Do I look like I'm in a fucking chatty mood?"

"Fair enough," he says, backing off, busying himself with cleaning a glass that's probably as dirty as the souls of the people who come in here.

Another POP from outside. This time it drags me back—back to the sands, the heat, the screams. Ali's face flashes before me. He was just a kid, eager to serve, eager to prove himself. We'd been ambushed. Explosions everywhere, bullets flying. Ali went down. I reached for him, tried to drag him to safety, but then... then another explosion. I was thrown back. When the dust settled, Ali wasn't there. Just parts of him. Parts I couldn't piece back together.

Why the fuck did I make it and not him? That's the million-dollar question, ain't it? Lottery of life and death, and the house always wins. Always.

I finish the second glass, slam it down on the bar. Bartender gives me the look again but doesn't say anything. I drop a couple of bills on the counter and stand up. It's getting late. Linda will wonder where I've been. Not that I have a good answer. Not that I ever do.

As I step out of the bar, another firework lights up the sky. I flinch, but this time I force myself to look up, to see the colours bursting across the dark canvas of the night. It's beautiful, in a twisted, tragic sort of way—beauty born out of explosion, out of destruction.

I take a deep breath, get back in my truck, and start the engine. For a moment, I sit there, hands on the wheel, staring into the empty road ahead. Then I make the turn, head toward home, toward the questions I can't answer, the wounds I can't heal, and the family that I love but can't quite face.

And as I drive, another firework goes off, a brilliant, bursting star lighting up the dark sky. For a split second, amidst the dread and the memories, I feel something else—a flicker of awe, a glimmer of wonder, a flash of the beauty that life, at its most terrible, still somehow manages to offer.

Maybe, just maybe, that's something. Something worth holding onto.

Keira: Age 30, Victim of Cyberbullying as a Teen. Trigger Situation: Getting an anonymous hateful message on social media.

The notification sound from my phone is like a shot that pierces the air. Harmless, it should be. A text, a like, a tag—something that's part of the everyday scenery of this digital world we're living in. So why's my gut in knots before I even check? Maybe because I know how quickly a "ding" can turn your life into hell.

I pick up the phone. There it is—an anonymous account, an egg for a profile pic. But the message? That's as real as it gets. And it's fucking vile. My hands tremble, shake like they're having a fit. I can't breathe. "You're a joke," it reads. "Why don't you just disappear?"

Just words. But I know better. They echo in my mind, those syllables forming a wall of noise that drowns out everything else. And I'm suddenly there—back in that dimly lit room I used to call sanctuary, my teenage bedroom with its worn-out posters and unswept floors. The place where I'd hide when the cyberbullying got too intense. Wrapped in my duvet like a cocoon, trying to shield myself from the world that was so eager to tear me apart.

"Block," I mutter to myself, tapping the button like it's a talisman that can protect me. But the screen might as well be a mirror reflecting my past, my vulnerabilities, those raw wounds that I thought had scarred over. Turns out they're still there, open and bleeding at the slightest touch.

I drop the phone like it's made of fire, and it clatters on the table, but I barely notice. My heart's too busy pounding against my ribcage, like it's fighting to break free. I'm in my flat—my adult flat, not that teenage bedroom—but the walls are closing in, the ceiling's dropping low, and I'm losing it. I'm losing the plot.

Why do they do it? These anonymous fucks who hide behind screens? Do they know the power they wield? Do they care? Do they get a kick out of it? Is it just a game? And if it is, why the hell is it so devastating to me, a grown woman with a job, a life, a boyfriend who loves me? Why does it thrust me back to that dark place where I'm a whimpering kid, humiliated and helpless?

My phone buzzes again, but I can't. I can't look at it. The dread's like a stone in my stomach, pulling me down. "Fuck this," I whisper, the words just a wisp of sound. And I grab my jacket, leave the phone, and step outside.

The air's crisp, a bit chilly. It nips at my skin, but I welcome the discomfort. Anything to feel real, grounded, not like a ghost haunted by a past that won't let go. I start walking. No destination in mind, just the need to move, to escape my own thoughts if only for a few minutes.

And then I see it—a street musician, a young woman with a guitar and a voice that fills the air, turning it into something almost magical. She's singing about love and loss, about the highs and lows that make up this fucked-up thing called life. And for the first time since that message, since that cruel trip down memory lane, I feel something other than dread—hope.

I'm still here, still standing, still moving forward even when my past tries to drag me back. And it hits me. The power to define me doesn't belong to some troll hiding behind a keyboard. It's mine. Always has been.

My phone's at home, still buzzing with the hate of a stranger, but it doesn't matter. I'm not that frightened teenager anymore, hiding from the world. I'm Keira, a woman who's been through the wringer and come out the other side stronger for it. And while my scars may never fully fade, they're a part of me—a testament to battles fought and survived.

As I drop a few coins into the musician's guitar case, her eyes meet mine and she smiles, a simple yet profound connection between two souls navigating this chaotic world. And in that fleeting moment, amidst the strings and chords, the laughter and tears, I find it—the courage to face another day, to write my own narrative.

It's a small victory, but it's mine. And right now, that's enough.