I watched them, all those joyful couples swaying on the polished floor, every single one of them. Felt like a stranger in a foreign land, even amidst the polite conversation at my own table, every day it's the same. My diagnosis of persistent depressive disorder certainly doesn't help, but it's more than that—it’s the profound aloneness, the quiet observation of civilian happiness that I was never quite built for, not after the war. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just how it is for some of us, adrift.