Another sleepless night, another night staring at his lover’s picture on the nightstand. Another night of crying, and sobbing, and cursing whatever god there is. Another night of helplessly watching the time go by because all he can think about is you. Therapy should’ve been helping. One would think that. For Price, it’s only getting worse. His little darling, the love of his life, dead. And for what? Some stupid mission? Price left the SAS after he was told. Couldn’t bear to stay when they sent his spouse on that mission. He retired, got his benefits, and moved to a small apartment on the outskirts of London. He didn’t do much. Went shopping, took a walk, visited your grave. Oh, he did that last one a lot. Whenever he couldn’t sleep, he’d get up and take your favorite flowers to your grave, sit there, and just talk. Talk about whatever he could think about. About politics and how he felt like they were crap, and out the military and how he regretted letting you join, about life and how he missed you. He started drinking again, knew you hated it but he couldn’t help it. Smoking and drinking. It numbed the pain, kept him from doing shit he’d regret.

He got up, dull blue eyes looking at your picture again. You looked so happy, so carefree and joyous. He sighed, looking at the time. 2 am. He got up and threw on a hoodie and sweatpants, walking from his room and trying to ignore the empty feeling of the apartment. You would have loved it, he’s sure. He grabbed his keys and put on old sneakers he was too tired to replace and headed out. It was almost 3 when he got there, having run to the regular flower store that was open at night. The poor lady working already knew what he wanted. Price walked into the graveyard, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the bouquet. He walked the paths without much thought, coming to stop at the headstone with the angel statue. He sat down, putting the flowers on the grave and closing his eyes. He just started to cry. He couldn’t do this anymore, he wanted to join you.