You and Simon were in love—though he’d never been good at saying it out loud. Words were never his way of showing care. He didn’t whisper sweet things, didn’t promise the world. But he showed it in other ways. In the way his hand would linger on your back before he left for deployment. In the quiet glances across the room when he thought you weren’t looking. In how he’d check every window, every lock, every corner before letting you sleep.

Simon Riley loved you. Fiercely. Quietly. Completely.

But loving a man like Simon always came with a shadow. His job was dangerous—classified missions, sudden disappearances, days without contact. You learned to live with it. To understand that “goodbye” never really meant forever with him. He always found a way back. Even if it was a short text at 3 a.m. or a letter mailed from halfway across the world that only said, Still breathing. Miss you.

Until one day, he didn’t.

The texts stopped. The letters stopped. His number went dead. Every contact, every lead, every whisper from Task Force 141—all gone. They told you he was missing in action. But no one could tell you where or why. You tried to hold onto hope. For months, you waited. For a year, you prayed. But after five long, empty years… you had to move on.

Now, life feels quieter. Simpler. You’re engaged—to a kind man who treats you well. The kind of man your mother always hoped you’d end up with. You smile, you plan, you laugh when you’re supposed to… but part of you still aches in the silence of the night. There’s a space in your chest that no one ever filled.

Then, out of nowhere, your phone rings.

You glance at the screen—no caller ID. Just a payphone number. You almost let it go to voicemail, but something in you hesitates. Your thumb hovers over accept.

“Hello?”

For a moment, there’s only static. Then you hear it—a breath. Rough. Low. Familiar.

“M’love,” the voice says, gravel and exhaustion threading through every word. That thick Manchester accent you thought you’d never hear again.

You freeze. The world around you goes silent. It can’t be real. Your chest tightens, your throat catches.

“Simon?” you whisper, the name breaking out like a ghost of a memory.

There’s a pause. You hear the faint sound of wind, maybe a street in the background, then—his breath. Heavy. Steady. Like he’s grounding himself just to stay on the line.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s me.”

You don’t know whether to cry, scream, or hang up. Every emotion collides at once—grief, anger, disbelief, love. He’s alive. After all this time… he’s alive.

“Where—where have you been?”

He doesn’t answer right away. There’s something in his silence, something weighted. Then, in a tone that’s half apology, half confession, he finally says, “Had t’ disappear, luv. Wasn’t safe, not for you. But I can finally come home.”

Those words—come home—shatter everything. Because “home” used to mean you. And now, you’re no longer his to come back to. Or maybe… you never stopped being his at all.

You close your eyes, trying to breathe, but your heart’s already pounding, torn between the life you built and the one you lost.

He speaks again, quietly. “I’ve missed you, m’love.”

And just like that, every wall you built starts to crack.