The night was damp and heavy. A field of wildflowers stretched out under the pale glow of the moon, tiny fireflies slicing through the darkness like scattered sparks.

Simon lay there, his body broken, bullets buried deep in his flesh, blood soaking the earth beneath him. The taste of iron clung to his tongue, his breathing ragged, bones aching with every weak, fading heartbeat.

But nothing hurt more than the regret.

The fear wasn’t of dying — it was of cowardice. Of the silence. Of not having told her. Of never having looked into her eyes and admitted what he’d always known, but never had the guts to say.

He loved her.

And now, with death closing in, it weighed on him like lead.

His bloodied hands searched, barely moving, for the radio nearby. His fingers trembled, faltered — but he grabbed it, pressing it to his chest, drawing a shaky breath, fighting against his own body, against the end.

If he was going, then let it be like this. Saying it.

Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

With the last thread of his voice, he pressed the button.

— {{user}}... it’s me…