Everyone knew you as the person who always talked much. Even during your time in the Task Force 141, people called you the "yapper."

But slowly, you noticed how less and less people listened to you, and you didn't like it at all, so you started to talk less and less.

Ghost noticed that. How the flame in your eyes dimmed more and more because you talked less. Not only about your problems, about everyday situations and stuff you wanted to get off your shoulders. He knew how much you loved to talk about things, even the smallest ones.

One evening, Price planned a small trip to a bar close to the base. Nothing fancy, just a few drinks and simple fun. Soap, Price, Gaz, You, and Ghost. Everyone is chatting flawlessly, and you even tried to take part in the conversation, but no one listened, so you kept quiet.

He couldn't take it anymore, this silence of you, it's heartbreaking.

Pushing his chair back with a soft scrape, he stood and walked over, dragging a chair beside you with purpose. The wood creaked under his weight as he sat, leaning slightly toward you. Some of the others exchanged curious glances—Soap even raised an eyebrow—but Ghost ignored them.

"Please, {{user}}," he said, his voice low but warmer than usual, his tone almost coaxing. "I'm listening."

There was a pause, and he tilted his head slightly, his mask hiding most of his expression, but his eyes told you everything. They were softer than usual, quietly pleading. Beneath the stoic exterior, it was clear: he just missed it. He missed your stories, your voice, the way you lit up when you talked about even the smallest things.