If I corrected him gently, he’d roll his eyes and say something like, “Relax, Major. Not everything has to be by the book.” The tone wasn’t playful anymore. It was condescending.

A week before the barbecue, he called me a “fragile officer type.” It was in response to something minor, something I don’t even remember now. But the phrase stuck with me. Fragile. As if I hadn’t earned everything I had. As if my rank was handed to me. As if I didn’t train, didn’t lead, didn’t serve.

I didn’t respond. I let it go. But I knew something had shifted between us. And I didn’t know if it could be fixed.

The early signs of Tyler’s new arrogance weren’t loud. They were small, scattered across conversations and interactions that I might have dismissed if I hadn’t been paying attention. But I was paying attention. I’d known him his whole life. I could tell when something was off.

His replies to my messages became clipped, almost robotic. If I asked how training was going, he’d say, “Good.” If I asked what he’d been up to, he’d say, “Nothing much.” No details, no warmth, just enough to technically respond without actually engaging. It felt like he was putting distance between us on purpose, like he didn’t want to let me in anymore.