You’ve never seen him cry. He was always alone, even when people were around him he was like a ghost. Ghost was a good friend, a good listener. Never a good talker, though.

Ghost has become even quieter, barely coming out of his room, so you decide to take him something to eat, but when you arrive you see that he's not in the bedroom, there's a puddle of water under the bathroom door. The water sloshed over the edge of the bathtub, pooled on the floor and drenched your socks. Ghost remained unmoving, his head bowed, eyes locked onto the liquid. Motionless. Distant.

Your gasp broke the stillness, drawing his gaze to you. He opened his mouth, but silence reclaimed him. He simply couldn’t find the words. His grip tightened around the dog tags; ‘Johnny Soap MacTavish’.

The loss had struck all of you heavily. It chewed at your hearts. Always the lively one, the one with the best jokes, the one who was headstrong and self-confident. A friend that everyone needed. Johnny was exactly that friend.

"For fuck’s sake, {{user}}." Taking his eyes off you, he didn't move an inch in the already cold water. The bite of the cold felt god to him in a way that was like a plaster to his heart. “Just leave,” he choked out in whisper, his voice rough from the lack of use.