Damascus—or what’s left of it.

I’m wearing a gray T-shirt, and I more or less blend into my surroundings. All of the sandy buildings are coated in ash so that the whole city is gray. Even the sky is overcast with clouds that billow like smoke. Even without a filter, my photos come out looking like they’re taken in black-and-white. It’s bleak.

I haven’t seen devastation like this since Haiti, but this is hitting home much harder. No natural disaster has caused this chaos. We did this.

I raise my camera and take photos of the ruins. In places, the front walls of the high-rises have been blown clean off, so that you can see straight into the skeletons of old rooms. Little remains now, although I can occasionally make out furniture in the dust.

I shake my head sadly and turn to Matt, a member of my documentary team. “Street after street, it’s all the same. Is there anything left of this city?”

“Not after everyone’s taken their turn at bombing the shit out of it—Turkey, Russia, Iran, Britain, us. I’m not surprised there’s nothing but rubble left.”

Since I’ve been in Syria, I’ve seen tragedy on a new level. The civilian casualties are overwhelming. I’ve seen children covered in blood and ashes, searching for parents who are long gone, dead and buried under the rubble of whole streets.

These ruins are the least of the devastation this city has seen.

“Which country did this?”

“We hear the missiles were from Israel.”

I shake my head again, lifting my head to drink in the sight of the empty street. There would have been hundreds of apartments in these buildings. That must amount to thousands of lives destroyed. Those that didn’t die lost their homes. Some lost more than that.

I take more photographs.

I don’t need to wonder about whether what I’m doing is making an impact. I know that my pictures have made the cover of The New York Times more than once, and due to its relentless campaign highlighting the horrors we’re witnessing, the paper has raised both awareness and relief funds. I know I’m making a difference.

But I still don’t know if I’ve made the right choice.

I think about Sophie every day. When I accepted the job, I knew right away how much Sophie would miss me and worry. Yet I never considered how much I’d worry and miss her, too.

I wonder if she’s doing all right and whether she finally got that promotion. I wonder if she’s back on the dating sites, sending out naughty messages in hopes of making a connection with someone. I feel guilty every time I think about her.

“It’s harrowing stuff, isn’t it?” Matt says, interpreting the expression on my face as horror at the scene.

I nod. “It is.”

Matt frowns, raising his head slightly to listen. His brow glistens with sweat and dirt. Filled with sand and dust, his shaggy brown hair looks like straw. There’s a graze on his upper right cheek from dropping to the ground the day before to avoid being seen by a military patrol.

“I think I hear vehicles.”

My muscles tense, and I look around warily. Vehicles could be allies or enemies. Truth be told, photographers are always the enemy. Nobody wants the horrors of war to be highlighted.

I squint to look out at the road to try and make out who might be coming.

Suddenly, a searing pain shoots through my right shoulder. Bang. I let out a cry and lift my hand to where it hurts. I draw my hand away, finding it covered in blood.

There’s a second shot. Bang.

I turn around to see an enemy soldier on foot, a rifle pointed in my direction.

Matt is on the ground. He’s lying face-down in the dirt, his head resting in a pool of blood. I know he’s dead.

I run. Shots fire behind me. A bullet tears through my left abdomen. I stumble but know that if I fall, I’m dead. I press my palm down over the open wound and keep running. Another shot gets me in my left calf. I can feel the muscle being torn apart as the metal works its way through my flesh.

Collapsing to the ground, I squeeze my eyes shut. Your luck has run out, Cole.

What they say about your life flashing before your eyes is true.

In my final moments, I’m filled with regret. I think about my mom, and how I wasn’t there when she died because I was taking pictures after a mass shooting. I think about Dad, and how he’ll probably hear the news from David, or maybe even the police. He’ll have lost his wife and son; he’ll be completely alone. I think about Dennis, and whether or not he’ll ever be able to make the same kind of money on his own. I think about Sophie, and how my death will be her worst fear come to life, even after she begged me to stay.

As I’m faced with death, all I feel is guilt.

I thought this is the life I wanted, but when I’m lying on the ground, three bullet holes in me, every fiber of my being in agony, I don’t feel like I’ve lived with purpose. I feel like I gave up more than my fair share to be here. I could have been happy back home.

Since going back to The New York Times, I’ve had my doubts that I’d made the wrong decision, but at this moment, I know. I’ve made a huge mistake, and I’ll never get the chance to make it right.

I can hear the footsteps of the enemy soldier drawing nearer. I know that he’s about to fire that fatal bullet through my skull.

I’m sorry.