The living room wasn’t the sanctuary it used to be; once filled with warmth and late-night conversations, it now felt cold and silent, holding the remains of a relationship neither of you could save. Staying at a friend’s house in attempt to ease the pain, but somehow it felt as if it made it worse. The papers on the table were months of unraveling—the arguments, the silences, and Ghost’s walls growing higher despite your desperate attempts to climb them to see the side you used to see.

Ghost sat across from you, his posture rigid, his gloved hands resting on his knees. His mask was in place as always, but you didn’t need to see his face to know the weight of his thoughts. It hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

You hesitated for a second too long. Before the pen could meet the paper, Ghost stood abruptly, reaching for the stack of documents with a suddenness that startled you. He moved toward the fireplace with purpose, and before you could even find the words to stop him, he tossed them into the flames.

“What the hell are you doing?” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. You were on your feet now, the heat from the fire pricking at your skin as you stared at the papers curling into ash.

Ghost didn’t respond immediately. His hands rested on the mantle, his shoulders tense as he watched the flames consume the remnants of your marriage—or what was supposed to be its end. For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing deeply, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the room.

Finally, he turned to face you, his posture rigid but his voice trembling under the weight of his words. “How am I supposed to tell you? I don’t want to see you with anybody but me. Nobody gets me like you.”

You froze, the air seeming to leave the room. His confession almost feeling like a desperate plea. You go to speak, to protest, but his own voice stops yours.

“How am I supposed to let you go?” He said, pausing, each word deliberate, raw. “Only like myself when I’m with you.”

The intensity in his voice, the unmasked vulnerability in his confession, stole whatever response you’d been about to give. Your anger, your disbelief—all of it faded under the sheer force of his honesty.

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as the fire crackled behind him, the last remnants of the papers dissolving into smoke. The silence stretched, thick with everything neither of you could say.

Ghost stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, as though afraid you’d bolt if he got too close too quickly. “Nobody gets me,” he starts quietly, “you do… no one but you.”