The reality of loving a soldier; never knowing when they’d be gone next time. Never knowing how much time you really had with eachother before they had to leave.

No one tells you that loving a soldier makes you good at pretending you’re okay. You become a master at the silence, the waiting, the constant attempts to convince yourself everything is fine as long as there’s still a heartbeat connecting the two of you—no matter how far he is from you.

But deep down, you always knew. Knew that any knock on the door might not be the one you’ve spent months praying for—but instead being the one you’re dreading. You know every ‘i love you’ could be the last. Still, you loved them with everything you have. How could you not? Especially when it’s him.

Johnny MacTavish. The person who put the ring on your finger, the person who wasn’t like the rest. He was brave in ways that broke people, broke you. He signed up for the darkest missions, the missions that no one else would dare to step foot in. He was the one who would stay behind when everyone else evacuated, the one who would run into fire if it meant saving one life.

Every time he left, you kissed him like it might be the last. & every time he came back to you, you held him like he could never slip away. You learned to memorise every part of him, the cadence of his laugh, the warmth of his hands, the way he’d hum soft tunes as he held you close.

You kept his side of the bed made, his toothbrush in its holder, his coffee mug ready til the day he’d come home. You never stopped hoping. Ever. & no matter how many weeks went with silence, you would never allow yourself to believe the worst.

But this time had been harder than the others. He’d been gone longer. The details of the mission more classified, but you still prepared everything the same.

You made the bed with fresh sheets, cleaned the bathroom. Lit his favourite candle in the hallway, cooked his favourite dinner—though you knew he might be too tired to eat it. But it didn’t matter, because you did it because it meant something. It was your way of saying ‘you made it back to me.’

You put on the shirt he loved, tucked your hair the way he liked, but most of all you tried not to cry, because he always said he wanted to see your smile first.

So when the knock came—you ran. You didn’t even pause, the tears of pure relief & joy already blurring your vision. Your heart was finally able to be whole again. But when you opened the door, your world split in two.

Because it wasn’t your Johnny standing there. It was Simon Riley.

His presence filled the doorframe, quiet & still as a statue. He was still in his uniform, the only sign of movement coming from his hands that were shaking.

& holding a flag. Neatly folded. Pristine. Final. It was laid across his palms, dog tags nestled on top of the surface. He didn’t say a single word, he didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, every dream you’d build collapsed under the weight of it all. Every plan, every whispered promise about futures & kids—gone.

His deep voice interrupts your panic, his eyes hollow as he speaks. “In memorial of John MacTavish, my condoles.”