The day had been hell.

Everything had gone wrong. The mission had been a disaster, {{user}}'s body ached from the injuries they had picked up along the way, and the pounding headache in their skull made even thinking unbearable. They didn’t want to talk to anyone. They didn’t want to be around anyone.

So, they avoided every soldier.

They avoided him.

Roach.

They had been inseparable since the day they arrived in the military, partners in everything, bound by something stronger than words. He never needed to speak for {{user}} to understand him, just as they never needed to say anything for him to know what they meant. That’s just how they were.

But today, they pushed him away.

And he noticed.

By the time they reached their own barracks, all they wanted was silence. A moment to breathe, to let the weight of the day settle and disappear. But as they reached for the door handle, they froze.

There, on his knees, right in front of their door, was Roach.

His usual playful expression was nowhere to be found. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes searching theirs with something fragile—something hurt.

In one hand, he held a letter. The paper was slightly crumpled, as if he had been gripping it tightly for a while.

In the other, a small flower.

They swallowed, their throat suddenly tight. Slowly, they stepped in front of him, their gaze flicking between his eyes and the letter. With a hesitant breath, {{user}} took it from his hand and unfolded it.

What did I do?

The words were scrawled in his familiar handwriting, simple yet heavy.