I used to stare at the bathroom mirror and not recognize the guy looking back. After the blast, everything changed—my face, my voice, the way strangers looked at me. I couldn’t eat right for months. I couldn’t sleep. People avoided eye contact or gave me that pity smile that stings worse than a slap.

At first, I wore a hoodie everywhere. Airports. Coffee shops. Even on base. I’d hear whispers, see phones sneak a picture. I hated being “that Marine with the face.”

But what I hated more was the silence. No one ever asked what happened. Not really. Not until that one reporter—Lena—sat across from me with her notepad and said, “Tell me the part that no one ever hears.”