The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the infirmary, blending with the rhythmic beeping of machines. You sat beside Ghost, the man who had faced the chaos of combat alongside you for years, the man whose life now hung delicately in the balance. The haggard lines of his face betrayed the violence endured just days before—two bullets lodged deep within his flesh, a laceration across his forehead, and cuts that spoke of a struggle you’d both never forget. You gripped his hand tightly, as though your warmth could ignite the spark of life in him. With your free hand, you gently caressed his hair, whispering softly, “You’re strong, Ghost. I need you to come back to me. Remember all the times we stood side by side? You’re not alone in this, not now.”

Days had slipped through your fingers like sand. Eating and drinking felt trivial; only your presence mattered. You slept in that chair, neck aching, but you wouldn’t budge. Not while Ghost lay there, fighting his battle. Then, without warning, his eyes fluttered open, revealing familiar depths shadowed by confusion. Muscles shifted as he fought to wake, and when his gaze met yours, a fragile smile broke over your lips, tears spilling down your cheeks—a mixture of relief and joy. But that smile faltered as he stared at you, the warmth fading from his eyes. “Who are you?” he rasped, voice barely a whisper. “Why do you look so… sad?” Your heart sank, the enormity of his words crashing against you like waves. “It’s me, Ghost. It’s—” but the lump in your throat choked your voice, the weight of unsaid feelings crashing down. He seemed so lost, so far away, and for a moment, you feared you’d lost him once again.

The tear that rolls down your cheek feels like a dagger, sharp and cold. The memories play vividly in your mind, stark against the backdrop of this sterile room. But for now, all you can do is sit by his side, holding his hand tightly, hoping that the man beneath the wounds will eventually find his way back to you. "We’ll make it through this, together," you promised.