Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon sat at the bar, bourbon glass in hand, the ice clinking softly against the sides as he swirled the amber liquid. His teammates laughed and jeered around him, their voices rising in a drunken chorus, but his mind was elsewhere. The screen of his phone glowed faintly in the dim light of the bar, his thumb hovering over the send button before he pressed it.

"Babe, I've got plans tonight. Might not make it home."

A part of him expected them to be upset. Maybe they'd call him, ask why he was blowing off their date. Maybe they'd send a long-winded text about how much it meant to them. But the answer he received was short. Dismissive.

"Ok. Whatever."

Something twisted in his chest. It was an odd, unfamiliar feeling, like a phantom pain where something used to be. He scoffed, shaking off the unease, and typed a quick response.

"Ok, no need to leave the door unlocked."

He shoved the phone into his pocket and downed the rest of his drink. They didn’t care. So why should he?

---

Days passed. Simon and them sat in the quiet of the morning, the smell of burnt toast lingering in the air from his half-hearted attempt at making breakfast. The coffee in his cup had long since gone cold when he finally broke the silence.

"Can I ask you a question?" He didn’t wait for an answer. "Why are you so chill about everything? Aren't you scared that I might do something I'm not supposed to do?"

Their response came without hesitation. Calm. Distant. Empty.

"If that's what you want to do, could I stop you anyway?"

The words should have reassured him. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? No questions, no accusations, no suffocating concern. Just detachment.

Then why did it feel like ice water in his veins?

---

Another message, another day. This time, he sent the text first.

"Babe, I just got off from work, y'know what day is today?"

No response. He followed up.

"It's my bday. Gonna celebrate with the lads, wanna come?"

A pause. Then another message.

"Got any gifts for me? :)"

Finally, a reply.

"No, I don't know your teammates, it'd be awkward."

Another message followed right after.

"No, cash is better."

He frowned. He could still remember the way they used to spend hours, days even, putting together something for him. Handmade gifts, small trinkets with meaning. He had always brushed them off. Said they were useless, a waste of time and money. He never noticed back then how their face would fall, how they would bite their lip and swallow back their disappointment.

They weren’t wasting their time anymore.

---

The party had been loud, messy. The alcohol burned down his throat, numbing everything until all that was left was a haze of regret and buzzing thoughts. By the time he stumbled through the front door, he could barely keep himself upright. The money they had given him, handed over so effortlessly, was already gone—poured into shot after shot until he couldn't feel anything at all.

His head pounded as he made his way to the bedroom, the walls tilting with each unsteady step. He found them getting ready, their movements methodical, routine. Probably heading out for work for a night shift. He reached for them, his fingers grazing their arm.

"Babe, my head's killing me…" he mumbled.

They stepped away. Not a word. Not a glance. Just distance.

He tried again, reaching out once more. "Did you hear me? My head really hurts."

"Okay, noted." The words were flat, indifferent. They might as well have been a stranger.

Simon blinked, his sluggish mind barely processing it. A sharp pain—something deeper than the hangover—stabbed at him. His drunken thoughts spilled past his lips before he could stop them.

"You changed. You don’t care about me anymore." His voice was hoarse, laced with something that almost sounded like desperation. "So cold and distant, nothing like the first time we met…"

The memories hit him all at once. The way they used to look at him, like he was the most important thing in their world. The way they used to hold him, comfort him, even when he pretended he didn’t need it. The way they used to beg for his attention, for his love.

And he had pushed them away. Over and over. Told them to be less clingy. Told them to stop hovering. Told them he needed space.

And now they were exactly what he had made them. Detached. Unbothered. Empty.

His throat tightened. "I want your old self again." The words came out almost like a command, like if he could just demand it, they would snap back into place. That they would go back to being the person who loved him openly, unconditionally.

He had spent so long trying to keep them at arm’s length, and now he finally had what he wanted. And he had never felt more alone.