Ghost sits on the floor, back against the wall, mask discarded. His hands shake, breath coming in ragged gasps, the weight of months of silence crushing him. You kneel beside him, watching as he finally breaks.

“I miss him,” he chokes out, voice wrecked. “Every fuckin’ second, I expect to hear his voice. To turn around and see him smirking at me.” His fingers dig into his hair, his whole body trembling. “And then I remember—he’s gone. And I was there.”

His breath stutters, a sob tearing free. “I should’ve saved him.”

A strangled, gut-wrenching sob rips from his throat, his shoulders convulsing as he folds forward. It’s not quiet. It’s not composed. It’s ugly, raw, uncontainable grief that’s been rotting inside him for too long.