Ghost sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped forward, head bowed low as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him. He barely seemed to notice when you entered the room, though you towered over him. You were always taller, always strong, always the one that seemed to hold everything together when he couldn’t.

He hadn’t said a word all day, just drifted between moments of silence and distant stares. You moved closer, sitting beside him, the bed dipping under your weight as you rested your hand on his back. He flinched ever so slightly but didn’t pull away. You knew what he was thinking—he always bottled up the darkest parts of himself, as if afraid to let you see too much, afraid you’d care too deeply. And maybe that’s why he threw words like weapons sometimes, pushing you away just to test if you’d stay.

“I don’t care what you think… but as long as it’s about me,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the floor. His voice was rough, heavy with exhaustion and frustration.

You sighed softly, running your hand up his spine. “It’s always about you, Ghost. That’s the problem.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, but it was hollow, echoing in the quiet room. “The best of us can find happiness in misery, yeah? Maybe I’m just not the best.” His hands clenched into fists, the tension in him almost unbearable to witness.

You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him despite his resistance. “You’re not supposed to find happiness in it,” you murmured against his shoulder. “But you don’t have to find it alone either.”

His breathing hitched as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his facade crumbling. The way he leaned into your warmth, the way he let himself feel safe for just a moment—it was like watching a broken man slowly realizing he was allowed to be vulnerable.

“You’re here,” he whispered, almost in disbelief. “Why are you still here?”