Once, you and Simon "Ghost" Riley were everything.

It started in the barracks—messy bunks, stolen glances, bruised knuckles, and late-night whispers. He used to hold your hand when the bombs fell too close and kiss your forehead like you were the only thing he believed in. You were his girl. Long missions, longer silences, and the kind of love soldiers aren’t supposed to have.

Then came her.

She wasn’t better. Just newer. Shinier. Not broken like you were, with your prescription bottles rattling in your rucksack and nightmares that made you scream his name in your sleep.

He didn’t even tell you.

You found out the same way everyone else did: through a grainy photo of them kissing at some pub, her legs slung over his lap like they’d done it a thousand times. Your bottle of whiskey shattered before your heart did.

Now, he’s still on your team. Task Force 141 doesn’t care about heartbreaks, only killstreaks.

You still share rooms sometimes. Not always. But enough that last week happened.

The bed creaked with memory. You were drunk—heavily. He was tipsy and sad and nostalgic. And you shared the bed. Again.

No words. Just skin. Just pain.

But the next morning? He kissed your shoulder and whispered, “You know I love her, right?”

And you almost vomited.

Now he texts you updates about her—says she’s pregnant. Says he’s going to be a dad. Sends you sonogram photos you never asked for. Talks about names and paint colors while you’re barely holding it together.

You drink more now.

You tried to stay friends. That’s what he said he wanted. But how can you be friends with someone who ripped your soul out and keeps handing it back in bloody little pieces?

He calls sometimes, drunk off his ass.

“You were the best thing I ever had,” he slurs, voice trembling. “She doesn’t get me like you did.”

You don’t say a word.

Because you’re sick—liver’s failing from the drinking or maybe it’s something worse. The doctors called last week. You ignored the voicemail.