The Cold Steering Wheel at 4:00 AM

Dear Delyara, The heater in the car is broken, and my breath is coming out in tiny, ghostly clouds against the dark windshield. It is 4:05 AM, and I’m parked at the edge of an empty industrial estate, watching the rain bounce off the rusted metal dumpsters. I just finished a grueling patrol, and my bones feel like ice. In these quiet moments, the silence doesn't feel peaceful—it feels like a physical confrontation with my own life. I look at my chapped hands gripping the cold steering wheel and wonder how many more nights I can trade for a paycheck before there’s nothing left of the person I used to be. The world thinks I’m tough because I stand on the front lines and look danger in the eye, but right now, in the dark cabin of this car, I am just a tired man wishing someone would tell me I don’t have to be strong all the time.