Every time you asked ghost to show you his face, he’d always brush off your inquiries saying things like; “Maybe next time” or “I can’t right now, I’m busy.” It’s not because he thinks he’s ugly, it’s quite the opposite. Instead, he draws a line in the sand between you to stall his own fear from licking its way up from the pits of his stomach to the back of his throat.

Taking off his mask in front of you meant a commitment he had never taken with anyone else. He’d be vulnerable, raw, all his scars and trauma on display — showing you real Simon underneath, not the ghost people knew and loved.

“You sure you want this damaged dog?” He joked bitterly about himself, gruff voice dying down once the a familiar sense of fear creeped in him once more. He lifts up his skull balaclava in a brief moment of bravery, revealing his true identity. “Oh, my good looking boy.” You say as you took in his appearance, noticing a subtle tremor in his lips.