Never in his life could Simon have imagined that there would come a moment when he would be so mentally broken that he would literally feel his heart breaking inside his chest.

"Say please." His mother asked when he, a seven-year-old boy, asked her for sweets instead of dinner.

"I never say please!"

Simon had never believed in God, but right now, running next to the gurney that was taking you to the hospital wing, he couldn't stop praying to any god he knew.

The mission went according to plan. The enemy was neutralized, the hostages were released without loss, and the team was ready to move back to the nearest shelter. But then a shot rang out. The bastard from Makarov's squad fired before dropping his head into a muddy puddle, dead.

And the bullet hit you.

"Please..." Simon whispered, helping the paramedics push the gurney across the asphalt.

His army uniform was soaked through, and there were traces of dirt mixed with blood on his hands. With your blood.

He was crushed, watching your body disappear behind the doors of the intensive care unit. But he had only one thought in his head when he fell to his knees near the entrance of the hospital wing.

I haven't told her. She may never know that I lover her.