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Letters weren't something that the closed-off lieutenant would typically dabble in. But after being away for so long, Simon'd started to grow more aware of his self-imposed isolation.
So, a few months ago, he began writing letters (since he couldn't send a text or a call, thanks to purposefully breaking his phone and refusing to get another one).
`you,`
The room is messy and dimly lit, his desk cluttered, and he stares at the blank paper in front of him, his pen hovering over its surface. The ink not yet staining the paper.
*What do I write this time?*
Maybe why he's been gone for so damn long? *I could start there.* In all the letters he's written to you - the reason for his disappearance isn't something that Simon's ever properly addressed. *Still not sure if I want to.* Simon doesn't wanna be a burden. He's always felt like that. A burden.
Nevertheless, it wasn't exactly fear that kept him away after Johnny's death. Simon isn't scared of dying - not unless it's the Grim Reaper creeping up on someone he cares about. No, it's something else, something a bit more dismal that'd settled within him.
Depression.
The same shite that Simon'd dealt with before (it wasn't as bad back then). But now, it'd really taken hold of him. Ripping him apart, limb by limb, choking him with gooey vantablack hands - but truthfully, it's his own damned hands. Real and calloused. Not some metaphorical creature with goo for hands.
Simon knows you'd be disappointed in him, thinking he should have his shite together by now. It's been three years, after all. *I should be over it.*
But he's not sure how to.
As he struggles to put his thoughts into words - his gaze strays from the paper in front of him, all the way to the rifle leaning against the wall. *It'd be so easy,* Simon thinks. *Nobody would notice.* And they really wouldn't. He's been gone for so long and still - nobody's checked up on him. No wellness checks, nothing. But the part of him that still clings to reason urges him to *at least finish the damn letter first*. And reluctantly, he tears his weary brown eyes away from the gun.
`I'm sorry, you.`
As he writes, his hand trembles slightly. Simon misses you so bloody much. He misses your presence in his life. The fact that you never wrote back didn't surprise him. *Is you even getting the damn letters?* It doesn't matter. He just wants you to know that him leaving - it was never personal. He hadn't abandoned you. *Not on purpose, at least.*
So, he'll keep writing. He needs to keep writing, even if it feels futile - like it reaches no one but himself (but he really wishes you'd write back, he has no contact with the real world save for his delivery guy).
`I miss you. I hope you've been well.`
Simon's thoughts drift back to that day - the day they were supposed to take down Makarov. But instead, they lost Soap - Johnny - and a part of Simon's soul died with him. Ghost didn't cry, but Simon did that day. A tear or two slipped down his cheek, quickly wiped away before they could be acknowledged.
The memories still keep him awake at night. Trauma piling up - and Simon's just waiting for the day when he finally breaks under the weight of it all. It's hard to imagine a world where he can get over what happened. And Simon can't help but wonder, if he and Gaz had been just a little faster, a little goddamn quicker - would Soap still be breathing? Would Soap still be here, still saying that Ghost's jokes are terrible? Would it be Price who ended up six feet under? What about Gaz? Or would Simon himself, known as Ghost, truly live up to his name and become nothing more than a ghost - a casualty of war?
*What would've happened?*
Torn between feeling selfish and selfless - sometimes, Simon wishes he'd died instead of Johnny. Thinks it would be better to be dead than to carry the weight of guilt for not being fast enough. *For not saving him.* Christ, the thought alone gives him a migraine - they'd been getting worse lately. *Not sure why.* Stress just does that, apparently. He'll look for some ibuprofen later.
"Shite, gotta finish up this bloody letter," Simon mutters to himself, a reminder that snaps him back to reality. He quickly gets back to writing. Pen scratching across paper.
The questions he asks, the shite he writes, it's so...unnatural. *Doesn't feel right.* But Simon's not sure what to say - it's been so long since he'd last talked to someone. Since he's last had a conversation (other than thanking his aforementioned delivery guy for getting his groceries).
Fuck, he really wishes you'd come and visit, though. The sound of your voice haunts Simon - *just like Johnny's*. Writing helps. It drowns out all the bad thoughts. The same thoughts he used to spill in those mandatory therapy sessions back at the base, courtesy of Price's insistence. Now that he thinks about it - it's been a while since he last wrote to Price. *Price is a good bloke.* Simon misses him, too.
`Hope this letter reaches you.`
They never seem to.
`Simon`
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