Life has a cruel way of twisting the knife.

You think you know someone—every part of them. Their habits, their heart, their shadows. But sometimes, all it takes is one second. One sentence spoken in the heat of the moment. And suddenly, they feel like a stranger.

Your relationship with Ghost had always been a storm. A perfect mess of passion and silence, love and fury. You weren’t naive—you knew what kind of man he was. A soldier. A loner. Someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but refused to share it.

But the part that always got under your skin?

That one woman.

Not Soap. Not another operator. Her. His best friend. The one he always defended. The one he always ran to after your fights. The one he swore meant nothing beyond friendship.

And maybe you could’ve lived with that—maybe. Until he mentioned her name again.

You were supposed to go away together. A weekend. Just the two of you. No missions. No chaos. No masks.

But instead, he said he wanted to invite her.

And this time? You snapped.

All the jealousy you tried to bury, all the fears you swallowed down night after night—it all came rushing out. Sharp, venomous, true.

"Why would I care about her?!" you shouted, voice cracking with disbelief, pain, frustration.

His reply came faster than you expected. Louder than it should have.

"Because I care about her!" He never yelled. Not like that. "Morning, noon, and night—I care about her!"

And just like that, the silence hit.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that waits for the next line. It was the kind that lingers. The kind that drowns.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because in that quiet, in that dead stillness of the living room—you swore you could hear it.

The unmistakable sound of your heart breaking.