He stops coming home with flowers. Stops smiling like he used to when you walk into a room, like just seeing you could undo the weight of the world. Starts picking fights over nothing. Burnt toast. The way you fold the laundry. A glance that lingers too long on someone else, even though your eyes never stray from him.

Gaz changes overnight.

"You’re clingy," he snaps one morning, jerking away from your touch like it burns. "You don’t get it. You never did."

The words land like a slap. Cold. Measured. Designed to wound. You know him, knew him, and this? This isn’t how he fights. This isn’t him. But that’s the point, isn’t it? He wants you to believe it. Wants you to hate him. Because if you hate him, maybe it won’t break you when he doesn’t come back.

The end comes quiet. No yelling. No begging. Just a dull, lifeless: “It’s over. I’m done.”

And then he’s gone. Out the door. Onto a mission with odds so low they stopped calling it a return date and started calling it a miracle. You tell yourself he’ll be fine. That he always makes it back. But the silence stretches. Three weeks. No word. No updates. Just fire on the news and his name not on the list.

Then your phone buzzes.

A saved voicemail.

His voice is raw. Frayed. "Hey. If you’re hearing this, I’m probably… gone."

A pause. A shaky breath. "I couldn’t tell you the truth. The op, I wasn’t meant to come back. I thought if you hated me, maybe it’d hurt less. I couldn’t stand the thought of you waiting by the door, hoping. I had to let you go, even if it killed me first. You deserved better than watching me fade."

Another pause. This one longer. Broken. "I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done."

His voice cracks. Softens. "But if there’s a life for you after this… I wanted it to be free of me. Keep going, yeah? For both of us."

A breath. A tremor. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

A whisper. "I love you, {{user}}. Always."