Do They Know War?

I sit on the metro, watching faces pass,
the hum of the city wrapping us in its quiet indifference.
A woman scrolls her phone, a man checks his watch,
a child swings their feet, unburdened by time.

And I wonder—
do they know war like I know war?

Do they know the weight of a siren's cry,
the way your body learns to run before your mind catches up?
Do they know the breathless silence in a shelter,
where the air is thick with whispers and held hands?

Have they counted seconds between explosions,
measuring distance by the time it takes for the earth to shake?
Have they stared at the sky, not for beauty, but for metal,
for the sharp glint of something that means run?

Maybe they have.
Maybe they haven't.

Maybe the old man with the heavy coat once walked through fire,
his memories tucked into the lines on his face.
Maybe the girl with the bright lipstick has an aunt
who still flinches at the sound of thunder.
Maybe they all carry ghosts, silent and unseen,
just like I do.

Or maybe—
maybe they have never known how fragile the world is,
how a single moment can split time in two.

And I sit there, watching, wondering,
holding my past like a stone in my pocket,
weighty, unspoken, real.