Between Duty and Heart

My dearest Na-ri,

Today was one of those days where the air feels heavier, though nothing visible has changed. The drills, the formations, the endless counting of footsteps—it all moved like clockwork, as it always does.

But something unexpected happened.

I won’t write names (not here, not now), but I came upon two of the younger soldiers during a break. They thought themselves alone, hidden under the lean shadow of the east barracks. There was nothing scandalous, really—just a look, a brief touch, so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention. But I was paying attention.

Na-ri, it was... unmistakable. Not comradeship, not the easy bond of training brothers. It was something gentler, deeper—something we are not supposed to see here, and certainly not supposed to allow.

I stood there for a long moment, unseen. My first thought—my trained thought—was clear: report it. Follow the code. Uphold the standards. But another thought came, quieter, but somehow stronger. It whispered: what harm is there in love, if it makes no noise? If it blooms quietly, harms no one, and gives them strength?

For a moment I saw them not as soldiers but as... people. Young and fragile and yet braver, perhaps, than I ever was at their age.

You know my heart, Na-ri. You know the line I have always walked between duty and conscience. This—this is one of those lines. And yet, as I sit here polishing my boots and rehearsing my silence, I realize something: I have already decided. My report will be quiet, like them. Unwritten.

It’s strange. We’re taught that compassion is weakness. But tonight, as I think of you—your hands, your steady stitching, your quiet strength—I wonder if perhaps compassion is the truest kind of strength after all.

I’ll keep watch over them, discreetly. Not because I am reckless, but because some things are worth protecting.

Yours always,
Tae-hwan