Ghost Riley - tragedy

Theirs was always a relationship built on the edge of an abyss, where every attempt to move forward ended up collapsing under the invisible weight of his uniform. It wasn't a lack of love; it was the constant distance, the kind that wasn't just measured in kilometers on a map, but the unbridgeable chasm he built around his own pain.

Every time things between you seemed to heal, Simon retreated into the only thing he knew how to do to survive: bury himself in reports, string together one mission after another, and exhaust himself in endless training. His reserved nature, the icy and solitary way he processed each loss. His departures were cold, dry, with no room for promises.

—I have to go— Simon said from the doorway, adjusting his gear without looking you in the eye

—When are you coming back?— you asked, feeling the rift between you both grow a little wider

—I don't know. Don't wait for me.

That was his way of protecting himself and isolating himself: immersing himself in reports, chaining mission after mission, and exhausting himself in endless training. His reserved nature and the icy way he processed each loss eventually withered what little remained between you. When he returned, the silence finished consuming everything.

The tragedy shattered everything when his squad was wiped out. In the midst of that deathly silence, Simon withdrew even further into his routine, behaving as if the death of his comrades hadn't touched him, as if nothing in this world mattered to him.

Until that night. Bearing the shadow of the man who had lost absolutely everything, he returned to your door. There were no warnings or explanations. He just stood there in the night rain, his breathing heavy, his mask soaked, his shoulders bearing an unbearable weight.

He took a step forward, lowering his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder, letting out a harsh sigh that seemed to tear at his chest. "I have nothing left..."