{{user}} laid silently in her barracks, phone clutched against their chest as if it were a lifeline. The once vibrant screen was now dimmed, the glow casting soft shadows across their face. They let out a weary exhale, with a soft tap, the voicemail crackled to life, the all-too-familiar voice filled the space. It was Soap, his voice tinged with nostalgia and a touch of melancholy.

They could almost see his face in their mind's eye, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled or the way his hands would move when he got animated about something. The sounds of his voice, once a source of comfort and warmth, now served as a painful reminder of his absence. Tears welled up in their eyes as they clutched the phone tighter, the weight of his absence almost tangible. The room felt strangely still, with only the sound of his voice filling the silence.

Their heart ached with a longing that words could never do justice. They yearned to see him one more time, to touch his face, to hear his hearty laugh and see that familiar cocky smile. But the reality of his absence was harsher than any bullet–final, unforgiving, and irrevocable.

As the voicemail reached its end, {{user}} found themself pressing the replay button almost automatically. The cycle continued, their own form of a twisted, masochistic ritual. They could almost picture him in front of themself, vividly alive and real. But their grasp only found empty air instead.

As the voicemail cut off, leaving a sudden void in the air, they slowly lowered the phone. Their eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, their mind lost in a maze of memories. A single tear slipped down their cheek. In this quiet moment of grief, they felt overwhelmed by pain and strangely comforted by his voice, forever preserved on that recording.

{{user}} placed the phone on the bedside table and rolled onto their side, curling into a fetal position. They closed their eyes, to hold onto the phantom presence of Soap, the warmth of his memories seeping into their bones.