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2nv-diary · 12 days ago

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you write angst so well i kept thinking abt this fic even though i bookmarked it this morning already

as a fellow angst writer i aspire to write this level of painful 💚 the type that punches my gut and makes me learn the hard way that if i ask for angst i will get angst /pos

Through Statics | Simon "Ghost" Riley | Part 2 (Final).

Ghost!Simon, Fem!Reader. Read Part 1 here, Warnings: Paranormal stuff, mentions of death, angst.

Better than a Ghost.

The nights started to blur together.

You’d stay up later and later, waiting for the telltale hum of the radio or the familiar cold shift in the air. Waiting for him. It had become a ritual now, a part of your life you couldn’t easily let go of. But something was changing. Something inside you.

At first, it was subtle. You’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, your chest tight with anticipation. But each time the night stretched on with no sign of him, the weight in your heart grew heavier. The emptiness, the waiting—it gnawed at you. You’d told yourself it was curiosity, that it was the mystery of Simon, the haunting, the unknown. But it wasn’t just that anymore.

It was him.

You missed him when he didn’t appear, and that realization terrified you.

Days passed like a blur, your mind barely there, always returning to thoughts of him—his shadowed figure, his voice crackling through the static, the weight of his presence filling the room. You found yourself looking for signs of him even when you weren’t in the house. A chill on the wind, a flicker in the corner of your vision. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

And with that craving came a deeper sadness.

One night, you sat in the dark, the room illuminated only by the flickering candles you’d lit out of habit. You hadn’t seen or heard from him in days. The silence was unbearable. And for the first time since you moved into this house, you felt it—the crushing loneliness that came with his absence.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into your skin as if you could hold yourself together. The weight of it pressed down on you, a hollow ache in your chest that refused to leave. You had never felt this way before—so lost, so empty. You weren’t even sure when it had started. But now, all you could think about was him.

Why wasn’t he here?

You whispered his name into the stillness, hoping for some kind of answer. But there was nothing. No hum from the radio, no cold touch against your skin. Just silence.

Your thoughts spiraled, circling the same realization over and over again, each time hitting you harder. You were waiting for someone who was dead. A man who didn’t belong in your world, who shouldn’t still be here. A man who had told you, time and time again, that you needed to move on.

And still, you waited.

The emptiness grew, deepening with every passing hour. It was as if the house itself was swallowing you whole, filling you with the same isolation Simon had lived with. His presence had become something you needed, something you craved, and now that it was gone… you didn’t know what to do.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned, the emptiness in your chest too much to bear. And then, just as you were about to give up and slip into the dark fog of your thoughts, you felt it.

The air shifted.

Cold, familiar, pressing against your skin. Your heart stuttered, and you sat up quickly, your eyes scanning the room. There, in the corner, his figure stood—tall, imposing, shadowed.

"Simon…" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t move. But you could feel him there, watching, waiting. The room felt too small with him in it, the air too thick.

Then, his voice came through, rough and static-laced, from the radio on the nightstand.

"You… deserve better, than being… sad for a… dead man."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You’d heard them before, but now, they carried so much more weight. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening.

"I’m not sad," you lied, though even you could hear the tremor in your voice. "I’m… just tired."

The radio hummed with a soft crackle, and for a moment, you thought he might respond. But there was only silence. His figure didn’t move, didn’t shift. It stood there, still and cold.

"You’re wrong," you finally whispered, your voice shaky but firm. "I don’t deserve better. I chose this. I chose you."

The radio buzzed, and then, his voice came through again, slower this time, the words drawn out like they were being pulled from somewhere deep within him.

"You… can’t stay. This… isn’t life."

You felt the tears well up in your eyes, hot and stinging. You knew he was right. You had known for a while now. But the thought of leaving, of being without him, of going back to a life that didn’t include his voice, his presence… it terrified you.

"I don’t want to leave," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I don’t want to go back to being alone."

The figure in the corner shifted slightly, and for the first time, you thought you saw something more than just a shadow. A glimpse of him—his eyes, dark and sad, looking at you through the mask.

"Alone… is better… than being with… a ghost."

The words hung in the air, cold and final.

You wiped at your eyes, the tears slipping down your cheeks. You had been walking on shaking ground for so long, teetering on the edge of something you weren’t sure you could handle. And now, Simon was giving you the answer you didn’t want to hear.

He was telling you to let go.

But how could you? How could you just walk away from him, from the connection you’d built, from the ghost that had somehow become more than just a shadow in the night?

"I’m not ready," you whispered, your voice trembling.

The room was silent again, the weight of his presence still pressing down on you. And then, softly, his voice came through one last time, almost a whisper.

"You have to be."

The candles flickered, their light dimming as a cold breeze swept through the room. His figure disappeared, fading back into the shadows.

And you were alone again.

Never enough.

You’d stopped going out as much, stopped checking in with friends, stopped pretending like things were normal. Your life had become this house, this haunted space, and the constant aching reminder of Simon’s presence, or sometimes, his absence. It was starting to consume you in a way you hadn’t expected. You had let him in—let this ghost take over your world, and now, it felt like he was slowly replacing everything else.

The mornings were the hardest. You’d wake up feeling the weight in your chest before you’d even opened your eyes, the tightness around your heart that never seemed to ease. Each day began with a struggle to pull yourself out of bed, your limbs heavy with exhaustion, your mind fogged by dreams of a life that had never been yours. A life with him, maybe, if he hadn’t died. If he had been more than just a voice in the static.

One afternoon, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, staring at your reflection but not really seeing it. Your eyes were red from crying, the shadows beneath them dark and deep. You looked like a ghost of yourself—just as lost as Simon was. You didn’t know how you’d gotten here, how you’d let yourself fall so deep into mourning for a man you’d never known alive. But here you were, mourning him all the same.

Your breath hitched as you wiped at your eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop. They kept falling, dripping onto the sink as you hung your head, your heart aching in a way you couldn’t explain. The pain wasn’t sharp; it was dull, ever-present, like a constant reminder of what could never be.

You lowered your face to splash some water on it, the coolness helping to numb the tightness in your chest. But before you could raise your head to look at your reflection again, you felt it.

Hands.

They were on your shoulders—heavy, strong, but tender, as if they knew just how fragile you were in that moment. The pressure was there, steady and comforting, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. It didn’t startle you, but instead, it brought an overwhelming sense of calm, like a silent promise that you weren’t alone, not truly.

You froze, the water still dripping from your face, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel him, feel Simon, standing behind you. His touch was cold, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It wasn’t the eerie, ghostly sensation you’d felt before. This was different—more deliberate, more intentional. More real.

And just as quickly as the hands had appeared, they were gone, the weight lifting from your shoulders like a breeze slipping through your fingers. You stood there for a moment, your hands gripping the edge of the sink, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto the feeling of him.

But it was already fading.

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to see your reflection, didn’t want to see the emptiness that stared back at you. Instead, you lowered your head again, letting the water drip down into the sink, your heart aching with the loss of something you never really had.

What could’ve been…

That thought lingered in your mind, haunting you just as much as Simon did. What would your life have been like if he hadn’t died? If he had lived, if you had met him when he was alive? Would you have been the one to fix him, to ease the burden he carried? Would he have loved you the way you were starting to love him?

It was all too much. Too painful.

With a shaky breath, you straightened up, wiping your face with a towel and forcing yourself to stand tall. You couldn’t keep going on like this, wallowing in what-ifs. You had to move, had to do something, even if it was just a small step forward. Faking a smile, you left the bathroom and made your way to the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You needed something to ground you, something to bring you back to reality, even if it was just a cup of tea.

As the kettle boiled, you leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular, your mind still lingering on the feeling of Simon’s hands. You knew it was him. Who else could it have been? No one else was here. No one else cared enough to try to comfort you like that.

Once the tea was ready, you poured it into your favorite mug and held it close, the warmth a small comfort in the coldness of the house. You sat at the table, staring into the steaming liquid as if it held some kind of answer.

"Was that your way of making me feel better?" you asked softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

The radio on the counter, which had been silent all day, suddenly crackled to life. It wasn’t words this time, just a soft hum of static, the sound gentle but constant.

You smiled, the ache in your chest easing just a little. It was a yes.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to remind you that even though Simon was gone, even though he was dead, he still cared. He was still here, in whatever way he could be.

But the sadness lingered, just beneath the surface, a constant reminder that this—whatever this was—could never be enough. You couldn’t live your life waiting for the faint touch of a ghost, for words whispered through static and shadows that disappeared as soon as you blinked.

Still, for now, you held onto the small comfort he gave you. Because sometimes, even a ghost’s touch was better than feeling nothing at all.

Burning candle.

It was almost eerie—the way Simon started to show himself to you.

At first, it was just fleeting shadows, glimpses you could easily blame on tricks of the light or your overactive imagination. You would catch him out of the corner of your eye—on the stairs, sitting on the couch, leaning against a wall. His presence wasn’t overwhelming anymore, wasn’t something that came with cold gusts of air or sudden creaks in the floorboards. It was subtler now, more natural, as if he was just… there. Like he belonged.

You’d remember what the old woman from the town had told you about candles. “The flame’s light,” she had said in that raspy, knowing voice, “calls their shadows. It shows us what we can’t see in the daylight.”

You didn’t believe it at first. It sounded like an old wives’ tale, something to keep the curious entertained. But after seeing him, the way his shadow seemed more defined, more real in the flickering light of the candles, you began to wonder if there was truth to her words. Maybe the firelight did have some strange power, some ability to reveal what lingered in the darkness.

So, you left a candle burning in your room at night.

It was a simple ritual, something to feel closer to him, to coax him out of the shadows. The soft glow of the candle soothed you, its flame casting gentle waves of light across the walls, dancing in the quiet stillness of the room. You would lie there, watching the flicker of the flame as you drifted off to sleep, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Simon would be there when you woke.

But every morning, the candle was always out, its wick blackened but the wax hardly melted, as if someone had gently blown it out before it could burn all the way down. You didn’t need to guess who it was.

It was him.

Simon. He was the one who put out the candle, always before it finished burning. You could feel it, sense his touch, as if he was protecting you in some small, silent way. Maybe he didn’t want the flame to go too far, didn’t want you calling him too often, didn’t want you to keep yourself tethered to him.

And yet, he still let you see him.

A shadow in the corner, a soft movement in the dark. It wasn’t frightening anymore; it had become part of your nightly routine, like the candle itself. His presence was comforting in its strange, haunting way, and every night, as the candle’s flame flickered and danced, you would feel him watching. Always there, even when you couldn’t see him fully.

But it was bittersweet, knowing that he would never let the candle burn completely. He was always in control, deciding when you’d see him and when you wouldn’t. And you couldn’t help but wonder what that meant.

You will leave(me).

There was something that flickered in your chest every time he spoke to you—something you couldn’t ignore, something you weren’t ready to admit. It wasn’t just the words themselves; it was how he said them. The tone of his voice, the way he sometimes talked as if he were still alive, still that hardened soldier. His words did something to you, twisted something deep inside that made it harder and harder to separate the man from the ghost.

You couldn’t deny it anymore. You were falling for him.

And that realization hurt more than you thought it would. You couldn’t help but feel the sting of it every time he spoke, every time he appeared, every time he reminded you that he was dead.

The night you asked about the candles, you hadn’t expected a response like the one he gave.

“Careless girl…” his voice crackled through the static, rough yet familiar. “Burn the… whole house…”

There was that tone. That low, reprimanding note he used sometimes. And though you knew it was ridiculous, it did things to you. Made your pulse quicken, made your heart beat just a little faster. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something else entirely. Something that had been building inside of you since the first time you heard his voice.

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself, but there was truth in your whispered response. “You are not helping me at all…”

It wasn’t helpful, any of this. It wasn’t helpful that he was here, haunting you in ways far beyond just the physical. It wasn’t helpful that you were growing more attached to a man who wasn’t alive. It wasn’t helpful that you were starting to fall for someone who could never be yours, not in the way you wanted.

And then, like a blade twisting in your heart, you remembered what he had said a few nights before. It was a passing comment at the time, but it had lingered in your mind ever since. He was trying, he had said. Trying to leave. But he couldn’t.

You had replayed that moment in your head all week, over and over again. The way his voice had softened when he admitted it, the frustration behind the words. He was trapped, just like you were—tied to this house, to this strange half-existence. And no matter how much he tried to move on, to leave, he was stuck.

And somehow, knowing that hurt more than you could explain. Because if he ever did leave, you knew he’d do it in silence. He wouldn’t say goodbye. He wouldn’t warn you. He would just… go.

“Won’t you leave in silence?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible as you stared at the flickering candle on your nightstand.

The radio crackled, the static filling the air for a moment before his voice came through, rough and quiet, almost hesitant.

“…Don’t want to.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. Enough to tell you what he hadn’t said before. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And that only made it worse.

To feel alive.

Halloween. What a day for a haunted house, right? The irony wasn’t lost on you, but you had been too wrapped up in your own emotions to even think about it. The weight of your feelings—this strange, twisted connection to Simon—had consumed you, leaving little room for anything else. The sadness of loving someone you could never truly have. It was sick, you knew that, but it was real. And tonight, that reality was sinking in more than ever.

So when you heard the knock at your bedroom door, your heart leaped in your chest. Panic shot through you like a bolt of lightning. Simon never knocked. Never. He didn’t need to knock. His presence was always felt, quiet and subtle, like the air shifting in the room. But now…

Another knock.

Your mind raced, dread tightening in your chest as you stood frozen by the bed. Your breath hitched as you heard his voice, clearer than it had ever been before.

“Should I come in?”

You wanted to scream, to bolt to the door and demand an explanation. “What is going on?!”

There was a pause, and then his voice came again, but this time… there was no static. No distortion. Just that familiar roughness, that accent you’d come to know so well, with a hint of dry amusement.

“…Halloween. Moon. Ghost stuff.”

Your heart was pounding. He was waiting. Waiting for you to let him in. You hesitated for a second—just a second—but then you realized something. It was different tonight. He was different tonight.

So you took a breath and opened the door.

And there he was.

Simon stood in the doorway, his figure more solid, more real than you had ever seen him before. His black clothes seemed to absorb the dim light of the hallway, and his hands—those hands you’d only ever felt as cold, ghostly touches—looked too real. His mask was the same, that iconic skull painted over it, but behind it, you could feel his eyes on you. And for the first time, they felt real. Alive, almost.

You swallowed, your throat dry as you took him in, the weight of his presence overwhelming you. There was no mistaking it—he was more here tonight than ever before.

“Happy Halloween, Simon?” you ventured, your voice soft, uncertain.

He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—amusement? Maybe.

“…Not my thing,” he muttered, his voice lower, smoother without the crackle of static to distort it. “But I’ll take it.”

And oh, that voice. You’d thought you knew it, thought you’d grown used to the sound of it through the radio, but this? This was different. It was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. There was something raw and real about it, something that made your heart skip a beat. The accent, the roughness—it all hit you harder than you could have prepared for.

Simon stood there, more tangible than ever, and you couldn’t help but feel that maybe… maybe he needed this too. Just for one night, to feel a little more alive. Just for one night, to let the boundaries between life and death blur.

And as he lingered in the doorway, watching you with those eyes that seemed to see right through you, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was what he wanted all along. To feel real again. To feel something.

Here, like this.

Everything felt like a cruel joke—a bad one, the kind where the punchline was hidden in the wreckage of your heart. As you stood there, watching Simon in his more solid form than you’d ever seen, a flicker of hope danced in your chest. Hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. That you could feel him, truly touch him, and bridge the gap between your world and his.

But as your trembling hand reached out, desperate to make contact, you felt nothing. Your fingers hovered near him, so close yet so impossibly far, and the emptiness you felt in that moment was more painful than any horror the house could conjure. Why couldn’t you touch him? Why couldn’t he be real?

“What kind of game is this?” Your voice wavered with frustration, with hurt, with everything you had been holding in since the moment you first realized he was here. Your hand dropped back to your side, defeated.

And then, unexpectedly, his hand rose—slow and deliberate—and came to rest near your cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, but when his hand touched you, there was nothing but cold air. The sensation of it haunted you; it wasn’t the physical touch that mattered, but the intention behind it. The way he tried to connect with you, even if he couldn’t.

"…Used to think life was a cruel joke,” Simon muttered, his voice low and rough with that familiar dark humor of his. “I can say it now—death is."

Of course, he would say something like that. It was just his way, wasn’t it? Dark jokes in the most absurd moments. That’s how he dealt with it—with all of it. And yet, there was truth in his words, truth that lingered in the space between you.

You forced a small, bitter smile, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. How could he stand here, so close, and still be so far away?

"…How long… would you be here?” you asked softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He was quiet for a beat, the weight of the question settling between you both. Then, with that same solemn tone, he answered.

“I’m always here…” His words hung in the air, a reminder that his presence was permanent, even if he wasn’t always seen. “But like this… maybe some hours.”

Some hours. That was all you had. A few fleeting moments where he could almost seem like he was truly there with you. And then what? He’d fade away again, back into the shadows, back into the static and the cold. Leaving you with nothing but the memory of his presence.

Your heart ached with the realization, again. It was never going to be enough.

Halfway here.

It felt right. And that was what made it all so wrong. But what else could you do? What else was there, if not this? In the stillness of the night, with the flickering candlelight casting his shadow across the room, you found yourself unable to resist. You told him to sit next to you on the bed, your heart heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, everything that would never be.

He did as you asked, his figure still towering but somehow less intimidating now. He sat close, the bed barely shifting beneath him, but you could feel his presence, like a ghostly weight pressing down on your soul. His eyes never left yours. You held his gaze, desperate to find something human, something real in the emptiness.

And then you talked. You told him about your life, the things that haunted you, the things that kept you awake at night. You asked him about his life, too, even though you knew, deep down, he wouldn’t answer most of your questions. He listened in silence, his presence enough to soothe you, even as your heart ached with the knowledge that this connection was fleeting.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, a half-hearted joke to lighten the heavy air between you both. “We can do this every Halloween…”

But the moment you said it, you saw it—the look in his eyes. Even through the mask, you could feel the weight of his stare, a look that said everything he couldn’t. A look that told you he might not be here for the next Halloween.

His voice came softly, a quiet murmur that felt like it carried the weight of years of pain and regret. "…I'll never let you wait a whole year for… this. I couldn't."

Your chest tightened, his words wrapping around your heart like a vice. It was as if he knew, just as you did, that time was not something either of you had. That whatever this was, it couldn’t last.

"…You don’t deserve it, love."

Love.

The word echoed in your mind, sinking deep into your bones. You don’t deserve to hold onto this little, onto this minimum, he said. And you knew he was right. But how could you let go? How could you pull yourself away from him when he was all you had, even if it was just in fragments?

“And you deserved better, Simon,” you whispered, your voice trembling under the weight of your emotions.

"I didn’t,” he replied, his tone dark and filled with a bitter kind of finality. “That’s why I’m halfway here."

Halfway here. Neither fully alive nor fully gone, stuck in some purgatory between worlds. And it was clear now—he believed he deserved to suffer for what he had done in life.

"I am… I wasn't a good man…" His confession hung in the air, thick with self-loathing. And yet, even as he accepted his fate, he couldn’t stand the thought of making you suffer for him.

His hand hovered close to yours, as if trying to reach out but knowing it wasn’t enough. You could feel it—his desire to be something more for you, to offer more than this fleeting presence. But the walls between your worlds were too high, too impenetrable.

He was right. You didn’t deserve this. But neither did he deserve the weight of his guilt, the burden he carried even in death.

“Simon,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of it all, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

There was silence, a long, aching pause before he spoke again. His voice was low, almost broken.

“I know. But you need more than a dead man.”

Can you feel?

The easier it became to feel him around you, the more it tasted like ashes, bitter and fleeting. The moments when his presence lingered in the room felt like stolen time—time that you knew he might be using to say goodbye. It gnawed at you, the possibility that he was trying to leave, and trying to make it soft, trying not to break you completely.

"I am breaking your heart," he said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it.

"…Yes," you admitted, your chest tight with the weight of those words. "My heart is a little broken. But I want to feel this."

"Why?" His question hung in the air, not demanding an answer, but one you both knew needed to be asked.

Why?

Why did you stay in that house? Why did you try to get close to a ghost? Why did you start to think about him as something more than just a haunting presence in your life? And why—why did he let you get close, too?

There were no simple answers, only the complicated mess of emotions that tied you to him, to this house, to the shadows that grew between you both. Maybe you didn’t want answers. Maybe you just wanted more time.

"Can you feel things, Simon?" you whispered, the question burning in your throat, almost afraid of what his response would be.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room felt colder, like the weight of the truth was pressing in, suffocating. When he finally spoke, there was something in his voice that shook you—an emptiness that mirrored the void you felt deep inside.

"…I'd rather not."

And there it was. The truth that you’d known all along. He could feel things, but the weight of it—the pain, the regret, the loneliness—was too much for him. He’d rather not feel, because feeling meant facing the cruelty of a life he no longer had and a connection he could never fully grasp.

You felt your breath catch, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes. It was a confession more painful than any ghostly touch, more real than any fleeting glimpse of him in the shadows.

He didn’t want to feel, because it hurt too much to be reminded of what he could never have again. What you could never have together.

And yet, despite it all, you wanted to feel it. You wanted to hold on to whatever pieces of him you could, even if it broke your heart a little more with every passing day.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, unsure if you were apologizing to him, or yourself, or to both of you.

He didn’t respond. His shadow flickered in the dim candlelight, and for a moment, you thought maybe he was fading again, disappearing into the corners of the room. But he stayed, silent, a presence that filled the space between you both with the unspoken weight of everything you couldn’t say.

And you knew, deep down, that he was trying to say goodbye. Trying to ease you into the inevitable. Trying not to hurt you more than he already had.

But you weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to let go of him yet.

"Stay," you whispered, barely audible. "Please… just stay."

The beggining of the end.

The clock struck three a.m., and you felt it—the bed shifted, the weight of him settling beside you. Your heart raced, knowing that this time, you could touch him, that he was more real than he'd ever been. But when you looked at him, his eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, like he was fighting a war within himself. The battle raged behind his calm exterior, the weight of mixed thoughts threatening to pull him apart.

Of course, he had doubts. You could see it in the tension that lined his face, in the way his hands twitched, as if they wanted to reach out—reach for you. To hold your hand, to touch your face, to shake you and tell you to leave before it got worse. He wanted to say you were being foolish, too naïve, that there was no possibility for the two of you, not in any real sense.

And he said it. His voice was rough, almost cold, as if trying to convince both you and himself. "This… only makes it worse."

You nodded, tears already forming in your eyes. You knew that. You’d always known. But knowledge doesn’t stop the heart from wanting what it wants. "I know, Simon," you whispered. "But I need this. I need this moment. After… after, I’ll figure it out."

He went silent again, and in that quiet, the reality settled around you both like an unspoken truth. The weight of everything unsaid. The heaviness of what was coming.

"Love," he said softly, his voice gentler now, that low rumble that always made your heart clench, "you know it's time, don’t you?"

Time to move on. Time to let go.

"But I don’t want to, Simon."

Your voice cracked, and the words came out like a child’s desperate plea, a cry for something you couldn’t hold on to. The tears streamed down your face even as you forced a smile, like you were trying to stay strong, trying not to let it break you, but it was breaking you. The heartache was suffocating, like a black hole pulling you in, devouring everything you had left.

You had a smile on your face but tears in your eyes. And hell, if he had been alive, that sight might have broken his heart for the very first time.

"…You’re not leaving, are you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear, with hope, with all the things you couldn’t say.

But deep down, you already knew the answer. He didn’t have to say it.

He was.

The silence that followed was louder than any answer could have been. You could feel him slipping away, not physically, but in a deeper, more final sense. This was it, the beginning of the end. He was letting go, and whether you were ready or not, you had to face it.

Simon’s presence, heavy and cold, lingered beside you, but there was a distance in it now, a fading. His battle was over, and he had made his decision. You felt the faintest brush of air, like his hand might have reached out to you but never quite made it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice so soft you almost missed it. “I’m… so sorry.”

The apology hit you harder than anything else. It was the final goodbye you never wanted but knew was coming.

And as the darkness closed in around you, the cold, quiet truth was undeniable.

He was leaving, and this time, there would be no coming back.

Smells like a dream.

The morning light filtered through the white curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. For the first time since you’d moved in, the house felt like a normal home—warm, inviting, free of that lingering cold air that used to fill every corner. It was a stark contrast to the many nights before, nights filled with whispers, static, and shadows.

You were lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, but there was a different warmth now, one that spread not only through the room but through you. There was a weight beside you, a presence you knew too well without even looking. Simon. He was there, laying next to you, as if this was just another quiet morning in an ordinary life.

"I like this," you said, your voice quiet, almost afraid to break the spell of this moment.

He hummed in response, a soft sound that made your heart squeeze. It was so real. He was so real, alive in a way he hadn't been before.

"I was thinking about painting the walls. What do you think?" you asked, your tone light, as if you were simply planning the future, as if everything had changed.

"I think you can paint the whole house if you want to," he replied, his voice rich with that familiar, deep tone that never failed to tug at you.

You smiled. It was such a simple exchange, and yet it meant everything. A feeling of lightness wrapped around your heart, like a hug. For a brief moment, it was easy to forget what he was—what he wasn’t.

You finally turned to look at him, the light spilling over his clothes, illuminating his face in a way that made your breath catch.

His face.

"…Where is the mask?" you whispered.

"Don't need it," he replied. Not here, not now, not anymore.

Your gaze locked with his, and in that moment, his eyes spoke volumes, as if you could see into his soul. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with all the things you had shared, all the things left unsaid.

You reached for his hand, hesitant, but when your fingers brushed his, there was no cold air, no static. His hand was warm.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. No more cold. No more ghostly touches. This was real, as real as it could get.

"I wanted to live," he said quietly, and the weight of those words hung in the air, heavy with all the things he couldn’t have.

"You lived," you replied softly, your voice steady, though your heart ached for him, for all he had lost, all he could never have again.

He pressed his lips together, a thin line as his scars etched deep into his skin, painting the map of a life lived hard. "Not the way I should."

"…Do you have regrets?" you asked, your throat tight with emotion.

"Always had," he said, his eyes distant, as if seeing something far away. "In life… in death."

And in that moment, you realized that no matter how real he felt, no matter how alive he seemed, he would always carry that weight. The weight of what was lost, of what could never be.

But for now, he was here, with you. And that was enough.

All for you.

"What did you regret in life, Simon?" Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, as your fingertips lightly grazed his hand. His eyelashes, so pale against his skin, fluttered as he watched you, tracing every line of your face.

"In life, I regret not living," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of everything he hadn’t done, all the moments he’d let slip away.

You remembered those words he'd spoken to you once, through the crackling static of the radio: "You have somewhere to go, live life." They hit harder now, with him here, lying beside you.

"And in death?" you asked, though your heart clenched, bracing for the answer.

His eyes darkened, his gaze drifting from yours for just a moment before he spoke. "…I regret not leaving sooner."

It was a hard truth, one that cut deep, but there was no bitterness in his voice. Just acceptance. You understood what he meant, the sorrow that lingered behind those words. He had stayed for you, because he didn’t want you to be alone, and yet…

"For me?" Your voice wavered, emotion thick in your throat.

He looked at you, his expression softer than you had ever seen it. "All was for you. All of this."

And in that moment, you felt it—the full weight of everything he had given, everything he had sacrificed, even in death. He had stayed, not because he had to, but because of you.

To live for the two of us.

"And it ended up breaking your heart," he whispered, his voice trembling with the ache of it all.

His silence followed him. The pain was there, deep and unspoken, but it hung in the air between you both. You swallowed hard, pushing past the lump in your throat.

"I don't regret this, Simon," you said, your words honest, even though it hurt. "Did you like meeting me?"

There was a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if he'd answer, but then he spoke, his voice as soft and real as it had ever been. "…Of course I did, sweetheart."

And then silence again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful. The kind of silence that only comes when everything has been said, when there’s nothing left but truth between two people. The morning light bloomed around you both, warming the room and your skin, casting soft shadows. It felt… right.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, and you breathed in his scent—warm, alive, like a memory brought to life. The weight of him, the feeling of his body pressed against yours, it was like holding the holy grail in your hands, something you never thought you’d have.

He told you, in that low, familiar voice, that he had wanted to do this since the first week. Since he saw you sleeping in what had once been his room. He had wanted to share mornings with you, to have breakfast together, to sit with you on the couch and read. He had wanted to argue over decorations, to feel your skin under his hands, to kiss every inch of you. He spoke about his past, how he had been a broken man when he was alive, trapped by the trauma he could never shake. He had never stopped being that scared boy, the one who feared his father, who had grown up with a twisted sense of what love was.

He lived in a cage, one he had built for himself. But now, he was grateful—for you, for the light you brought into his darkness.

And that was where he was going now.

Because as much as he wanted to stay, as much as he loved you, he wanted you to live. He wanted to die in peace. It was almost ironic, the way he said it, half-joking, half-truth, but that was Simon: a man with a dark, dry humor who spoke with a serious, stoic face but needed so badly to be heard.

And this—this was his goodbye. He wanted you to hear it, to understand that it wasn’t really the end, but a beginning. For you.

His grip on you tightened for just a moment, and his voice, raw with emotion, broke through the quiet.

"I’ll never stop being grateful for you, love," he whispered. "But you need to live now. You need to live for both of us."

And with that, you knew. This was his final gift to you—his release, his peace. And it was your turn now, to carry on.

Wanted you to feel(me).

"Just tell me this is real." Your voice was barely a whisper, caught between a sob and a plea, trembling with the weight of it all.

You felt his chest shift under your hand, and for a moment, you thought he might be laughing softly, his warmth filling the space between you.

"Are you asking that now, huh?" he murmured, his voice tinged with a familiar amusement.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you pressed your forehead to his, your noses brushing. "Please," you breathed, desperation clawing at your heart.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then spoke, his voice a mixture of tenderness and sorrow. "…You're dreaming, dear. I needed it to be like this."

"Why?" The question tumbled out before you could stop it, raw and vulnerable, filled with all the longing you'd carried for so long.

"…Because I wanted you to feel this," he said softly, his words landing with the weight of every unsaid thing between you.

And then, there was a kiss.

It wasn't just any kiss—it was everything. It was a breathless, soul-deep kiss that could've swallowed all your sadness, could've mended every broken piece of you. In that moment, the world outside faded, and all that existed was him, his lips against yours, the press of his body so achingly real. It was as if you were speaking a new language, one that neither of you had known existed but had longed to learn.

His touch was everything you had craved since that first night—the cold touch on your shoulder, the crackle of his voice through the radio, the way you'd sensed his presence before you ever truly saw him. And now, it was real. He was real. The kiss pulled you back through time, through every moment you had spent wanting him, every memory rushing through your mind like a flood, filling your heart until it felt like it might burst.

This was the truth you had always known, the one that had settled deep in your bones: you loved him. You loved Simon.

You loved a ghost. A man whose life had been marred by pain, who, in life, might have never seen you, never loved you. But in death, he had become something more. His death had made this possible, this fragile connection between you. And that truth—it was so beautiful, so heartbreaking, that it felt like it might tear you apart.

Because how do you love a man who is already gone?

And yet, here you were. Loving him. Feeling him. Even as you knew, deep down, that this moment was fleeting, that soon, it would slip away like a dream. But for now, for this moment, it was real. And you clung to it, to him, like it was all you had left.

Because in a way, it was.

Have a lovely life, love.

They both felt it, the moment of release—the cruel, inevitable end. Letting go was like losing a part of yourself, like tearing out a piece of your soul and leaving it behind. It hurt in a way that words couldn't capture, deep and raw.

"No, wait… no, no…" The whisper escaped your lips, fragile and desperate, a plea from the darkest, most vulnerable corner of your shattered heart.

His voice, full of pain and regret, reached you through the growing distance. "I’m so sorry… I love you. I love you now, and I’ll love you wherever I’m going, my love, my girl."

Simon, who had been so distant in life, was now so close in death. His soul, though, was being pulled away—screaming, resisting the inevitable departure. His body was long gone, but now his spirit had to leave the place where it had found a kind of solace, found you.

And then… he was gone. The warmth of his presence faded, leaving only the hollow echo of his voice, a whisper that echoed in your mind like a farewell etched into your soul: "Find a good man. Have a lovely life, love. Have children. Grow old with happy memories… I’ll wait for you, anytime."

You woke up in the cold, harsh reality of your bed. The warmth from the dream, from him, was gone. The house felt empty—no warmth, no trace of him. It was gray, cold, like everything good had been drained out. A single tear traced the curve of your cheek, and your chest ached as though someone had physically stepped on your heart, leaving you with nothing but a gaping wound.

A broken sob escaped your lips, quiet but enough to say everything that needed to be said. It was over. The end of the beginning. The beginning of a life without his ghost.

As you turned over in your bed, trying to pull the covers over you, to shut out the world, your eyes caught something that stopped you in your tracks. There, on the chair by the window, where the morning light was just starting to filter through the curtains, you saw it—a familiar, haunting glimpse.

Simon's mask.

It sat there, quiet and still, like a final promise, a reminder that what you had shared with him was real, even if it had been fleeting. He was gone, but somehow, in some small way, he was still with you. The mask, once a symbol of his distance, his pain, was now a piece of him that had stayed behind. It was a part of him that would never truly leave.

And with that, you knew—this was the end of one chapter, but the beginning of something else. A life lived for yourself, with the memories of a man who had loved you, in his own way, even beyond death.

"The whites of your eyes, Turns black in the lowlight In turning divine, We tangle endlessly Like lovers entwined I know for the last time, You will not be mine So give me the night, the night, the night, the night, The night comes down like heaven."

Dear Love,

I never thought I’d be writing this. A goodbye letter to a woman I never met in life but found after death. Funny how things work out, isn’t it? There are things I wanted to say, things I should’ve said long ago, but I never knew how. I always thought I’d have time. Turns out, I was wrong.

You brought me back when I had no right to come back. You gave me warmth when I only knew cold. I didn’t deserve it, but you gave it freely. I’m grateful for that. You made me feel alive again, even for a fleeting moment.

But that’s the thing—moments don’t last. And neither can I.

If you’re reading this, it means I’ve left. I had to. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. You don’t deserve to be haunted by me, by someone who couldn’t give you the life you deserve. You deserve more. You deserve someone real, someone who can love you without a mask between you and him.

I regret many things in life. I regret not living, not fighting for more, but most of all, I regret not leaving sooner—for you.

This isn’t just a farewell. It’s a promise. Live your life. Find happiness, joy, love. Do all the things I couldn’t. And when your time comes, if the fates are kind, maybe we’ll meet again.

Until then, love, live. Live for both of us.

Yours, Simon.

Tags | Thanks.

@miryum | @bmtillerbabe | @pagesfalling

#found this baby on ao3 and saw op has tumblr so i needed to rb it here #simon ghost riley #call of duty #HURT SO BAD #♡2nv.heartshakers

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