You and Simon had done the best you could with what you were given. You carried old scars from past relationships that taught you love could vanish without warning. Simon carried his own. Quieter, more hidden, and heavier, carved into his bones from years of learning how to not feel. Still, you chose each other. Or at least you tried to.

You met on borrowed time. He was home on leave, planning a hunting trip, stopping at the store for supplies he may need. You were lost in the aisles, staring at shelves like they might give you answers you’re looking for. He asked if you needed help and you talked longer than strangers usually do. You exchanged numbers like it meant nothing, like it wouldn’t become anything.

The relationship was never smooth. It made progress, then stalled, and then restarted like an old engine. You learned his silences, the way he shut down instead of opening up. He learned your fears, how you braced yourself for abandonment before it even arrived. He didn’t say much, but you knew he loved you. Sometimes. In the way he stayed. In the way he always came back.

But every deployment changed him. Each time he returned, it was like meeting a stranger who wore his face. Any ground you gained together vanished, going back to square one. Back to concrete walls and distance you couldn’t cross no matter how hard you tried. You understood the job was brutal. You understood the things he saw would never leave him. What you didn’t understand was how long you were supposed to set yourself on fire just to keep him warm. So you left.

The breakup felt worse than any goodbye you gave before he was deployed. You were used to him being gone for long periods. But this time, he wasn’t coming back to you. As Christmas crept closer, the weight of it sank in. You spiraled through memories, through empty plans and songs you couldn’t listen to anymore. You missed him. And he missed you too.

Simon unraveled in quieter ways. He told himself you were right, he was hiding more and more. That didn’t make it hurt any less. He punished himself with iron and sweat, spending hours in the gym that bled into late nights. He lost focus and sharpness during missions. When he finally came home, the apartment felt wrong. Your scent still clung to the air. Cruel, mocking, reminding him of his mistakes. But your things were gone. No shoes by the door. No mug in the sink. No blanket on the couch. No stack of books on the coffee table. No toothbrush. No you.

Snow fell outside the window, thick and silent. Inside, it was cold. If you were still there, he knew exactly what it would look like. You’d make it warm, cozy. String lights hung just a little crooked, lots of decorations you insisted on, warmth he never knew how to create on his own. His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back to you.

You hadn’t spoken since the breakup. But neither of you deleted the number. His hand trembled as he held his phone, whiskey burned in the other. He stared at your name longer than he should have, then dialed before he could stop himself.

You answered, voice soft and filled with surprise. “Hello?”

Simon swallowed, breath uneven, heart pounding loud enough for the snow outside to muffle it.

“Merry Christmas,” he paused, “I miss you.”