The silence over breakfast was suffocating. The clink of silverware against the plate felt louder than it should, echoing in the quiet kitchen. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the toast you hadn’t touched.

Ghost sat across from you, eyes fixed on his plate, his posture tense and distant like he was miles away even though he was right there.

You glanced at him, searching for anything to reassure yourself that he wasn’t slipping away. The fight replayed in your head, every word dissected and turned over until you could no longer tell who was right or wrong.

This morning, you tried to make it better. You asked something trivial—something light to break the ice. But his response was nothing more than a cold, chipped “yes.”

It shouldn’t have hurt the way it did. But it cracked something fragile inside of you.

You swallowed hard, pushing food around your plate. It wasn’t his fault — you knew that. Ghost had always been this way, guarded and distant, a man who carried too many shadows on his back.

But logic didn’t stop the ache curling deep in your chest. It didn’t quiet the voice that whispered he was slipping away.

Suddenly, you weren’t here anymore. You were ten again, standing in the doorway, watching your family unravel thread by thread.

You remembered the way you smiled too much, made jokes to fill the silence, held back your own tears because theirs were more important. If you could just make them happy, maybe they’d stay. Maybe they wouldn’t leave.

Your hands twisted in your lap, nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave half-moons behind.

Your heart screamed for Ghost to reach across the table, to hold your hand, to say something, anything to pull you back.

Ghost hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had and didn’t know what to say.

And so, you sat there, a grown woman with the heart of a little girl still begging not to be left behind.