You check the time—03:17.

Soap’s been knocking for an hour. Ghost hasn’t said a word.

Typical.

You sit alone on the floor of your barracks, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the pile of little white pills in your palm. Your fingers twitch.

Not because you’re scared. You passed that point hours ago.

You’re just cold.

It’s the same cold you feel every time Ghost leaves without saying goodbye. Every time he walks past you like you’re a piece of gear left behind. Every time he chooses silence over softness, steel over skin.

You clench the pills in your fist.

One. Two. Three. You take them dry. No hesitation.

But you’re not done. Not even close.

You reach for the bottle of tequila. It’s not full—wasn’t meant to be. You’ve been sipping from it every time Ghost forgot your name in the middle of a mission. Every time his eyes passed over you like you were just another shadow.

Tonight, you need it all.

You dump the rest of the pills into your mouth. They taste like chalk and endings.

Then you chug.

The tequila burns going down. Acid and heat and numbness, all at once. You drink until your throat spasms, until your stomach twists, until your body screams at you to stop—but you don’t.

You don’t stop.

You’re lying on the floor now, staring at the ceiling, watching it tilt and bleed at the edges. Your lips are wet with liquor and something sour. It’s not regret. Not exactly.

The only sound in the room is the slow shudder of your breath as your body starts to give.

You don’t cry. You already did that. Hours ago. Days. You lost track.

You gave him everything—every soft part of yourself, every piece of your soul worth loving—and he gave you silence. He gave you distance. He gave you his back as he walked away again and again.

He gave you nothing.

Except this.

This hollow space he left behind in your chest. The echo of him in your bed. The absence that pressed harder than his hands ever did.

You almost laugh.

But your lungs hurt.

And the lights are going dim.

The note is already written. It’s messy. Smudged in places where your hands shook. You didn’t write a letter to Ghost. He doesn’t deserve that.

You just wrote:

“I hope you feel it this time.”

⸻

He finds you three hours later.

Silent. Still. Cold.

There’s vomit on the floor. You bit your tongue at the end—he can see the blood drying around your mouth.

Your eyes are half-open.

You died looking at the door.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even touch you right away. He just stares, all the breath knocked from his chest, like someone kicked through his ribs and shattered what little he had left.

He kneels beside you, lifts your head into his lap. Your body is limp. Heavy. Wrong.

He whispers your name once.

Then again.

Then louder.

You don’t answer.

He finds the empty pill bottle. The half-spilled tequila. The note.

And for the first time in his goddamn life, Ghost breaks.

No mask. No walls. No armor. Just him, raw and ruined, cradling your body like it’s something sacred he forgot how to hold.

“This is my fault,” he whispers.

“This is my fucking fault.”

His voice cracks. He’s shaking. Rocking you back and forth like a lullaby could still bring you back.

“I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told you. I should’ve said—”

But the words die in his throat.

Because it’s too late.

Because you’re gone.

Because you loved him so much it killed you.

And he never said a word.