Even the truest kind of love—the kind forged in fire, softened by time, and sealed by touch—can vanish in a heartbeat. One second it’s everything: unbreakable, sacred, eternal. The next, it’s just… silence. Ashes in your lungs.

You never know the moment it’ll slip, the second the world shifts beneath your feet and something once eternal begins to fade like smoke. The kind of love you had with Ghost was more than vows whispered in stolen moments, more than blood and gunpowder, more than the adrenaline of life on the line.

Your love with him was the kind poets wrote about and soldiers envied. It was raw and real. It bled and healed. It whispered in the dark and screamed in the chaos. It survived deployments, near-death escapes, and long silences interrupted only by desperate kisses and tired “I love you’s.”

You weren’t perfect. Neither was he. But together? You made sense of the war around you—and inside you.

Until that one mission. The one you both knew could be the end.

War doesn’t care about love. It doesn’t care about promises made between broken breaths or hands held too tightly. And danger—real danger—has a way of finding even the strongest hearts. That day, it found yours. You were both trapped, injured, running out of time in a half-collapsed building. The world above crumbled. You could taste the smoke in your lungs and hear the ticking of your own fear.

He held your hand like it was the last anchor keeping him grounded.

"It’s gonna be okay, baby. I promise. I love you, remember that."

His voice was trembling but brave, like he needed you to believe it so he could, too. But you both knew there wasn’t time. You never got to say it back.

Then— Boom.

The sound tore everything away. Heat, smoke, pressure. Then pain. Then... nothing.

You woke up in sterile white. The hum of hospital machines the only thing welcoming you back to life. Every muscle ached. Your thoughts were fractured. You didn’t remember much—only fragments. A blur of war. A flash of panic. The soft echo of a man’s voice.

When you turned your head, your heart skipped.

A man lay in the bed beside you. Wrapped in bandages like you, face bruised and body broken. He stirred. Groaned. Opened his eyes. And though your memory had been torn to shreds, something in those eyes felt... familiar.

"Where am I?" he asked, voice hoarse and dry.

"I think… a hospital," you answered, just as unsure, just as weak. You stared into his eyes again. Something in your chest clenched. Not recognition. But not absence, either.

He let out a bitter breath, half a laugh. "Great. Ghost in a hospital. Soap’s gonna give me hell." He winced at his own joke, then glanced at you. "And you are?"

"My name is {{user}}." You weren’t even sure why you gave it so freely. You didn’t know him. Did you?

"I don’t remember how I got here," you added, your voice quieter now.

He squinted at you, clearly in pain. “You look familiar,” he muttered. “But I don’t know why.”

You didn’t either.

You stared at him, this man with haunted eyes and a voice that echoed in your bones. And for a second—just a second—it felt like the world paused. Like some part of you remembered something your mind couldn’t catch.

Because maybe when memory fails, the heart still remembers. Even if now, it beats for a stranger who once was everything.