You lie awake, phone pressed to your chest, rereading the last message from Simon. “Stay safe. I’ll be back before you know it.” It’s been weeks. You know what he does—what Ghost means. You signed up for the silence, the sudden absences, the half-finished calls cut off by static or gunfire. Still, nothing prepares you for the weight of disconnection.

The world moves on, but you wait.

You imagine him in the dust and shadows of somewhere unnamed, his voice crackling over radios, his face hidden behind that skull mask. You try to remember the man beneath it—the warmth in his rare smile, the way he touched your cheek like he wasn’t made for softness.

Sometimes, you lose him in your mind, too. The distance breeds doubt. Is he still him? Are you still you?

You water the plants you bought together. You wear his hoodie to sleep. You whisper into the dark, as if he’ll hear.

Then, one night, silence breaks. Your phone lights up. A voice mail. Just a breath, his breath, and a tired whisper, “Still here.”

You cry. You answer nothing. But your heart replies, So am I.