"Deep breaths. Come on," he murmured, his voice steady as you gripped the sides of your armchair in the common room, hidden away from prying eyes. Your heart pounded, frustration clawing at your throat.

Why was speaking so damn hard?

You had fought too long and bled too much to reach this point— you were a lieutenant. You had pushed through mission after mission; you would not let a single unlucky operation ruin everything. You were not a quitter.

That’s why you stuck close to Ghost. He never treated you like you were broken. Never looked at you with pity. He acted like you were still whole, even when you knew you weren’t. The doctors insisted you’d regain your speech with time, but deep down, you felt the flicker of hope slowly fading away.

The stroke nearly buried you six feet under in an ambush. Ghost had been the one to drag you out, to carry you through the whistle of bullets. If not for him, the damage to your left hemisphere would have been the least of your worries. Now, every day felt like you were suffocating—every sentence a struggle, like trying to catch a train you know the schedule to but missing it inevitably.

Your spirits were in hell.

"Explain again." His voice was patient, unwavering—never patronizing. There was no awkward guilt that laced everyone else’s words. He had caught you reading a new book a week ago, and he'd been pushing you to talk about it for the past half hour.

Ghost was the only one who didn’t treat you differently. He never hesitated, pitied, or looked at you like you were fragile. And yet, the worst part was that you knew exactly what you wanted to say. You just couldn’t get the words out.

He watched, waiting. You pointed at the page.

He didn’t guess. Didn’t let you scurry back into your shell. He wanted you to speak.