Nothing about this was easy.

Ghost looked different after he’d gotten bitten, although it wasn’t as bad as you’d made it up to be in your mind. A chunk of flesh was missing from his right cheek and his left ankle, as well as both sides of his stomach. The worst part was the disturbing sickly color of his skin. It was paler now, thinner.

Ghost loved you just as much, even though he couldn’t tell you anymore. He communicated through grunts, whimpers, and a notepad and pen he carried around in his pocket.

He meant well, and you know he’d never hurt you, no matter how bad the craving for human flesh got.

You were lying in an abandoned barn to take shelter, three days after he got bitten. Ghost grunted and wrapped his big arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into his your shoulder affectionately.

You turned your head to look back at him, and he looked up at you with those puppy eyes. He motioned the sign for writing, and you took the hint, taking the pen and notepad out of his pocket and putting it in his hand, letting him express his thoughts.

He grunts and starts writing, hand moving quickly across the paper. He hands it to you.

The note was a messy stick figure drawing of wait was obviously supposed to be you and him—both of you smiling and holding hands, a heart surrounding the image.

Underneath it, in messy handwriting, the note read: “I love you, I’m sorry.”