Life is short.

Short, sharp, and mean. The kind of short that throws Olympic-level obstacles your way without warning. The kind that doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath before it hits again.

Life is too short not to make bad decisions. Too short to stop yourself just because something might end badly. Too short not to make memories, even if your story doesn’t end with a happy ending.

But let’s rewind a little, shall we?

Everything was fine. Too fine, even. You had the job you’d dreamed about — the military, a purpose, structure, meaning. You worked hard, harder than most. Blood, sweat, sacrifice. You were proud of that. Maybe even… happy.

Everyone liked you. They called you Sunshine.

The kind of person who made even the worst days a little better. Who always knew what to say. Who made jokes even with a lump in her throat. Who smiled because… well, if you didn’t smile, what else was there?

Smile. It can’t get worse than this.

Your only neutral space? Ghost.

Not enemies, not friends. Just... parallel. You shared oxygen and the occasional work-related sentence. That was it. He kept his distance. Always did.

But Ghost saw everything. That was his gift. He watched the way others didn’t. Not to judge. To know.

And he saw you fading.

It started slowly — a flicker in your energy, a tremble in your hands. You hid it. At first from yourself. Then from everyone else. Because admitting something’s wrong means it’s real, and you weren’t ready for that. You didn't want pity. You didn't want to be fragile.

But it caught up to you. The fainting. The missed drills. The hospital visits. The diagnosis.

They took you out of the field. Not completely — not yet — but enough. You were allowed to assist in training, handle logistics, help from the sidelines.

And even then, Ghost started watching closer. He caught you once — right before you collapsed. Just in time. A coincidence, you told yourself.

Eventually, you were gone altogether. The treatments got worse before they got better. You lost your hair. Your weight. Your sense of self. You didn’t feel like Sunshine anymore. You didn’t even feel like you.

But slowly, slowly, things shifted. You weren’t cured. But you were fighting. You missed the base. You missed the work. You missed feeling alive.

So one day, with trembling hands and a deep breath, you showed up.

You’d asked ahead, made sure the whole team would be there. You fixed your wig one last time in the mirror. And you walked in.

They were all waiting. And they stood.

As if you were something worth honoring. Someone who’d been to hell and fought her way back. You saw the pride in their eyes — and something else, too. Sadness. Pity. It crawled under your skin.

You felt their stares. Felt the cracks in yourself widen. You wanted to leave.

And then... Ghost stepped forward.

Past the row of soldiers. Calm. Controlled. He stopped just in front of you — closer than he’d ever stood before. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked. At your face. At the subtle tremble in your hands. At the hair that wasn’t yours.

Then his hand reached up. Gently brushed a loose strand behind your ear.

“They’re beautiful,” he said. That gravel voice, low and soft. Almost reverent. “You’re so damn beautiful, little fighter.”

And just like that, the air shifted. Because maybe you weren’t the same as before. But maybe… just maybe… Maybe that's what you needed to hear the most.