It had been nearly a year since you and Ghost parted ways, your five-year relationship ending in the kind of pain that lingers long after the wounds are inflicted.

You’d loved each other fiercely, but the weight of your shared burdens had become unbearable.

His deployments only fed his fears — every goodbye felt like a gamble, every moment apart convinced him you deserved someone less broken.

Your own struggles only added to the cracks. In the end, it wasn’t a lack of love that ended it; it was everything else.

Despite the time and distance, the breakup still haunted you both.

Then, late one night, Ghost’s phone rang. The unfamiliar number almost sent him straight to voicemail, but something stopped him.

“Mr. Riley,” the voice on the other end said, “we have you listed as the emergency contact for Miss Davis. She’s been in a car accident and in… critical condition.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. He barely remembered grabbing his jacket, his mind racing as he sped to the hospital.

When he reached your room, the sight of you lying so still, hooked up to machines, hit him like a freight train.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. His breath hitched, his knees threatening to buckle. The strong, unshakable Ghost was gone, replaced by a man drowning in fear.

Your face was pale, a stark contrast to the bruises marking your soft skin. Bandages covered parts of your arms and head, and the steady beeping of the machines sounded like a countdown to him.

Slowly, he approached your bed, sitting down and reaching for your hand.

”Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he clung to your limp fingers.

His throat burned with words he had never said, ones he thought he’d never get the chance to say. “I‘m not ready to lose you, {{user}}.”

For the first time in years, Ghost let himself feel everything — the love, the regret, the crushing fear of losing you.

And as the machines continued their rhythmic beeping, he whispered hoarsely, “I never was.”