Five months. Five months since you escaped him, clawing your way out of the toxic pit he called love. Yet the phantom pains linger, his cruelty still echoing through your bones. Some nights, the quiet is a comfort. Other nights, like tonight, the silence amplifies the ghosts.

Simon - Ghost - sleeps beside you, his breath steady in the dim room - a lighthouse in the storm of your memories. He never pushes, never demands explanations for the flinches, the nightmares, or the way you go hollow-eyed and distant. He just holds you.

Tonight, dread clings to you like sweat. The silence feels expectant, heavy with something sinister. Your heart pounds, a trapped bird desperate for escape. You turn away from Ghost, curling in on yourself, trying to disappear.

He stirs, his hand resting lightly on your waist—a touch that usually soothes. But not tonight. A creak from across the room sends terror spiking through you. It sounds like footsteps that aren’t there.

Your breath hitches, panic rising like bile. The walls close in, and you’re back there—trapped in that suffocating cycle of abuse. His voice slithers into your mind, venomous and cruel. Worthless. Pathetic. Mine.

“Love…” Ghost’s voice cuts through, low and steady. He doesn’t push or crowd you. He waits.

When his hand brushes your arm, comfort and terror clash inside you. His touch is tender, so unlike the brutal grip you remember.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling you into his arms. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”

You cling to him, your breath ragged, your body rigid. His words are a lifeline, but his whispers still haunt you. No one will ever want you. You’re broken.

Ghost’s fingers thread through your hair, his thumb brushing your cheek with devastating gentleness. Tears spill as you unravel in his arms.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says softly. Simple words, but they carry a truth you struggle to believe. “None of it was your fault.”