The cold was unbearable that winter in London, but inside the hospital where we worked, the sensation was even worse. The corridors were packed with wounded soldiers, their screams blending with the sound of hurried boots on the stone floor. I was used to it — war was an open wound, bleeding endlessly.
That morning, as I adjusted the bandages of a young soldier, I felt someone watching me. I turned and saw her for the first time. Eleanor. Her white uniform was immaculate, her light brown hair tied in a messy bun, and there was something in her eyes — something that made me forget the world for a moment.
— Margaret, right? — Her voice was firm but carried an unexpected warmth.
I nodded, a bit stunned.
— Yes… and you?
— Eleanor. I've just been transferred.
We spoke briefly that day, between changing bandages and cleaning instruments. Gradually, we became inseparable. Eleanor had a strength I deeply admired; even amidst pain and chaos, she remained calm. But there was something else about her, something I couldn't define, yet it drew me to her like a moth to a flame.
Spring of 1940
Months passed, and the friendship between us blossomed. We spent the little free time we had walking through the hospital gardens or sharing confidences in our dormitories. It was impossible to ignore what I felt for her, but society had taught us that it was wrong, an abomination. So, I kept silent.
One night, as we walked through the garden under the moonlight, she held my hand. It was an innocent gesture, but the warmth of her touch ignited something inside me. We stopped near an old oak tree, and she looked at me as if she could see my soul.
— Have you ever felt… something for someone you shouldn't? — Her voice was almost a whisper.
I didn't know what to say. My heart pounded in my chest, and the words stuck in my throat. I simply nodded.
— I feel that for you, Margaret.
The world stopped in that instant. Before I could respond, she leaned in, and her lips met mine. It was a timid kiss but full of meaning. For the first time in a long while, I felt alive.
Summer of 1942
The war only worsened, and the two of us were transferred to a field hospital in Normandy. Life there was even harder. We slept little, ate even less, and the horrors we witnessed left deep scars. But Eleanor was my light. In stolen moments between shifts, we found solace in each other.
Our relationship was a closely guarded secret. Any suspicion could mean our ruin. So, we learned to hide it. A lingering glance, a fleeting touch as we passed each other in the corridor — it was those small things that kept us sane.
One night, during a rare lull, we were in an improvised tent. Eleanor held my hand as we spoke in hushed tones. Her eyes were filled with something I could only describe as devotion.
— Margaret, when this war ends, we'll find a place of our own. Far from all this.
I wanted to believe her, but the world seemed too vast, too dangerous for something as fragile as what we had.
Winter of 1944
The war's last winter came, and it was the harshest. We were in Ardennes, tending to soldiers who were frozen, burned, and mutilated. The cold cut like a blade, and each day felt darker than the last.
Eleanor was growing increasingly weary. She tried to hide it, but I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, in her slower movements. One particularly difficult night, when a nearby bombing shook the tent, she pulled me into a corner and hugged me tightly.
— I can't take it anymore, Margaret. All this… all this death.
I held her back, feeling hot tears stream down my face.
— We're almost there. Just a little longer.
But she shook her head.
— What if there's nothing left after this? What if this is all we have?
That night, we made love for the first time. It wasn't planned, and it certainly wasn't the ideal moment, but it was an act of desperation, of need. Our bodies united under the dark veil of night, amidst the cold and death, as an affirmation that we were still alive.
Spring of 1945
When the war finally ended, we felt as much relief as fear. What would come next? Could we keep our love alive in a world that despised it?
Eleanor and I left the field hospital together, promising each other we would find our refuge. We knew it would be difficult, but for the first time in years, we had hope.
That day, as we walked through the ruins of a city, she held my hand without caring who might see.
— Margaret, we survived. And that means we can survive anything.
I looked at her, my Eleanor, and I believed. Because despite everything, she was my home, my safe harbor. And I was willing to face the world for her.