For three years, Johnny was your anchor. Even with the long months he spent deployed, your shared apartment felt like a sanctuary of loyalty. You trusted him implicitly, and by extension, you trusted the names he brought home—specifically Ghost —the teammate Johnny spoke of with such reverence that he felt like a shadow in your own living room.

When Johnny returned from a four-month stint, you expected intimacy and privacy. Instead, you got a dinner invite with Ghost. Meeting him was like hitting a glacier; he was a silent, imposing wall of a man who spoke only to Johnny, leaving you feeling like a stranger in your own conversation. But you kept quiet for Johnny’s sake, even as Ghost’s presence shifted from occasional guest to permanent roommate.

The atmosphere in the apartment soured. Ghost had been living with you for three months, yet he still treated you like background noise. Meanwhile, Johnny’s affection took on a performative, almost aggressive edge— kissing you deeply while Ghost watched —his hands lingering longer whenever they had an audience.

The breaking point comes with Johnny’s casual suggestion.

“Ah, Bonny, you know I love ya,” he says, his voice breezy as if discussing the weather. “Just wannae share ya with mah friend.”

His nonchalant tone of makes your skin crawl, your eyebrows furrowing harshly. For three years, you built a life on the foundation of being his, only to realize Johnny had been redesigning the blueprints of your relationship behind your back.

The silence from the corner of the room is heavy. Ghost is there, as usual— a looming, masked presence who still hasn't looked you in the eye —yet he’s apparently been factored into your intimate life without your knowledge. The third wheel feeling wasn't just an accident; it was a rehearsal.

Johnny’s boyish, hopeful grin feels like a slap to the face, because it was obvious he was hoping for a yes to a question that should’ve never been asked.