#brad simpson

“I just need you to listen, Bradley.” You stood there by the door of his flat, arms crossed, your keys clenched in one hand like they might save you. “One day, you’re gonna look back and realize… you won’t find someone like me.”

He had scoffed back then, blinking like the idea of losing you was ridiculous. “You’re being dramatic.”

But the silence that followed made the words stick in the air like smoke after a firework fizzled out. That was six months ago.

Now? Now he knows.

Bradley is sitting on the corner of his worn leather sofa, one hand half-buried in his curls, the other holding a cup of coffee he hasn’t taken a sip from. The girl beside him is laughing at something on her phone—something dumb, some reel or meme. He smiles politely, even lets out a soft chuckle to be polite.

But his eyes? They keep darting to the hallway.

Because last winter, you’d always peek your head out from the bedroom right about now, wearing one of his hoodies and rubbing your eyes like a sleepy kitten. You’d groan about the terrible British weather or ask why he didn’t make enough toast for both of you. You’d kiss the top of his head mid-yawn.

And he’d grin like an idiot. Every single time.

Now? Now he’s just pretending to grin.

Because it’s not you.

-

His phone vibrates on the counter.

It’s a message from Connor—something about a band rehearsal next week—but he swipes it away.

Instead, he finds himself on your Instagram page, thumb hovering over your latest story. It’s blurry, dim. A bar maybe. There’s a guy’s shoulder half in frame. You’re not even in the picture—but his brain zooms in, analyzing.

Is she on a date? Is she laughing like she used to with me? Does he know she has a soft spot for thunderstorms, or that she sleeps with one sock on and one off?

His stomach knots.

He shuts his phone off. He tells himself it’s none of his business.

But he’s still hoping—like some pathetic idiot—that you're sitting across from that guy right now, bored out of your mind. That maybe you’re staring past him, secretly praying he’ll say something stupid, just so you can leave.

Just so you can realize... you still miss him.

But you probably don’t.

-

Bradley never changed your contact name. Never deleted the playlist you made on his Spotify. Never unfollowed your account like he said he would. “Clean break,” he had told the boys. “It’s better that way.”

He didn’t mean it.

Not when he still paused at every corner in Camden hoping he might bump into you. Not when he passed that tiny Thai place you loved and slowed down just to glance inside. Not when he started keeping his Sundays free “just in case.”

He meant if.

If you needed time. If you wanted to see who else was out there. If you were done chasing someone who didn’t always show up for you.

But if you ever—ever—looked back?

He’d be right here.

Still on that same green couch. Still humming unfinished melodies with your name stitched through the lyrics. Still talking to your ghost in every quiet hour.

He’d still be not with someone new.

Not because he couldn’t. But because he didn’t want to.

Because none of them laugh like you do. None of them scrunch their nose when they try not to cry. None of them kiss him like they mean it.

He reaches for his guitar, the one gathering dust against the wall. Plucks at it softly. His fingers find the chords like muscle memory, but his heart stumbles through the words.

He starts singing under his breath, not rehearsed, not polished—just true.

“If you’ve seen enough… Know that I’ll be right here…”

It comes out cracked, soft, like a secret he’s only now willing to admit out loud.

“Not with someone new… I keep on missing you…”

Bradley hasn’t slept.

It’s nearly 5 a.m., and his flat is still bathed in the soft blue of streetlights leaking through the blinds. His guitar rests on the floor by the couch. Half-written lyrics are scribbled across the back of a Tesco receipt, the pen lines shaky from his fingers trembling.

He can’t take it anymore.

He pushes off the couch like something inside him finally snapped—like he can’t sit still one more minute without doing something.

The cold hits him as he steps out. He doesn't bother with a jacket. His hoodie will do. The roads are empty, the world not quite awake, but his footsteps pound the pavement like a drumbeat in his chest.

He doesn’t even text.

Doesn’t want to give himself time to second guess it. If he does, he’ll turn back. He knows himself well enough to know fear wins when he lets it speak.

And God, he’s scared.

Scared you’ve already found someone who does everything he couldn’t. Someone who shows up. Someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t take you for granted and then write songs about how much they miss you six months later.

But he’s more scared of not knowing. Of letting you slip through his fingers while he hides behind lyrics and missed calls.

By the time he’s at your doorstep, dawn is breaking—soft pink skies creeping into the cracks of the city. He doesn’t even knock right away. He stands there, hand hovering, heart pounding so loud he can barely hear himself think.

Then, slowly, the door creaks open.

You're there. Hair messy, eyes puffy from sleep, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. You look at him like he’s not real for a second.

You open your mouth to speak—but he beats you to it.

“Look, I know I’ve got no right to be here. I just… I can’t keep all this weight on my shoulders.”

You blink, stepping back a little. “Brad—”

“I can’t sleep,” he interrupts, voice cracking. “My bed’s cold every night and it’s not because I’m alone. It’s because you’re not in it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, silent, but your jaw clenches.

He swallows. “I tried. I tried to move on. I really thought maybe I could fake it long enough to feel normal again. But I can’t. I keep hearing your voice in my head. I keep seeing you in every f—king room. I strip it all back and underneath I know—” He stops, his breath catching.

“I’m scared,” he admits, eyes locked on yours. “I’m scared you'll find another like me, better. Someone who listens the first time. Someone who doesn’t need to lose you to realize what they had.”

Silence.

A passing car hums down the street. A bird chirps from the rooftop nearby. You’re just watching him—still barefoot, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes searching his like maybe you're trying to see if he means it.

Then you whisper, “You should’ve said all that before.”

“I know,” he says instantly. “I know I should have. And if it’s too late, I’ll go. I swear. I just needed you to hear it.”

Another beat.

You don’t speak. Instead, you step back into the hallway and leave the door open.

Bradley’s chest tightens—but then, quietly, you say:

“You coming in?”

Everything looks the same—but also different. The polaroids on the fridge. The blanket you used to wrap yourselves in on rainy days, now folded neatly on the armrest. The scent in the air. It still smells like you, but fainter now. Like time’s been trying to erase him.

You shut the door behind him. Quietly. Carefully. Not like you’re angry. But like you’re waiting to see if this version of him is real.

You pad into the kitchen, wordlessly grab two mugs, and start boiling water. Chamomile—because you remember he always hated the bitter stuff.

He stays standing. Fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. Watching you move in the dim morning light like you’re something sacred he forgot how to hold.

“You look tired,” you say softly, pouring water over the teabags.

“I haven’t slept,” he murmurs. “Not really, not since…”

You nod, not needing the rest.

He finally speaks again after a moment. “I was a dick.”

You lift an eyebrow, half amused. “Bit of an understatement.”

“I know,” he breathes. “Maybe I should’ve loved harder. I thought just being there sometimes was enough—but you were always there for me. Always. And I didn’t even check if you were alright.”

You hand him his tea, and your fingers brush. He looks down at the contact like it burns. Then back up at you.

“I didn’t see it right,” he says quietly. “What we had. You were everything, and I was too wrapped up in my own head to see it. Now I realize.”

You lean against the counter, eyes fixed on him. “And what do you want, Bradley?”

His lips part—then close again.

Then he takes a slow, shaky breath. “I want another chance. Not to be perfect, or to pretend I’ve got it all together. But to try. Really try. To show up. To talk things out. To listen when you’re hurting and not just when it’s convenient.”

He sets the mug down, steps closer.

“I want to know if your new coworker still microwaves fish. I want to hear you hum songs under your breath in the shower. I want your bad jokes at breakfast and your cold toes in my bed. I want you.”

Your eyes well up, but you don’t blink them away. You let him see.

“I wanted you to fight for me, Brad.”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m fighting now.”

You take a long sip of tea to steady your breath. Then, slowly, you reach up and tug the edge of his hoodie—his old one, still worn thin at the sleeves.

And when he steps into your arms, when he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s coming home, neither of you says anything for a while.

Because this is the moment you were both missing.

Not a dramatic apology. Not a grand romantic gesture. Just this.

The Death of Sleep is the first, and imo the best, of these comics. This is the story of a Hunter before the events of the game, trying to understand the meaning of paleblood and trying to survive. For me, this is the best of the comics because of how much it plays with the idea of being a prequel to the story; it obviously telegraphs this with Iosefka still accepting patients, Old Yharnam not yet being burned and Djura being mostly friendly, but it also plays with the game mechanics being literally what it happening. We see the Hunter die and go to the Hunter's Dream, replaying stretches of the game and seeing enemies respawn. There's a sense of inevitable doom about it - this is not your Hunter, the Hunter who will one way or another win the game, but a Hunter who failed, a Hunter who died, a Hunter who struggled and bled like the rest of them but did not make it to the end. And that's interesting, right? This is the bleak kind of world that Bloodborne is. But maybe there's hope. The Hunter does make it to the Fishing Hamlet with the child, and while the child is not the paleblood that they need to end the Dream, they still manage to escape in a way. Out into the unknown.

The Healing Thirst is also a prequel, set among the people of Yharnam as things start to get bad outside, and follows a scientist and a priest as they attempt to figure out the source of the sickness that is covering Yharnam. If Death of Sleep is the best at showing the game world, this is the best individual, standalone story. There's a very real sense of the world crumbling and collapsing around the protagonists, and the desperation of their struggle to keep people alive and try and do what they can to survive. Not that they don't have their own secrets. The scientist begins to believe, while the priest's opinion of the church grows lower and lower as the story carries on, and not all is as it seems with these two characters. It's also interesting to see a version of this story where Hunters are antagonists, as opposed to the hero of the game.

A Song of Crows is focused on Eileen the Crow, the hunter of hunters from the game who is an early influence on your character. This is her backstory…sort of. It's weird. It's surreal, a story told out of time, spiralling around and around the same ideas. We see a funeral, a ritual, a boy drowning in a lake. Another hunter, this one with a human mask, is targeting her. It's very abstract, with similar symbols and ideas being repeated throughout. Honestly, I don't think I'm smart enough to be able to interpret it completely. If I were to pitch an idea, it would be that Eileen is so affected by the death of the boy - her friend - that she begun to get this deep respect for funeral rites and dying well that she shows in the main game. She is, towards the end of her life, haunted by the mistakes that led to the boy dying, to hunting hunters; something she is resigned to, but does not enjoy. The masked Hunter could stand for her guilt and grief, that idea that something has been chasing her throughout her whole life, something with an unknowable human face. It's a hugely interesting story, and I love Eileen so much.

The Veil, Torn Asunder is the weakest of the stories, in my opinion. It's got the surreal trippiness of Crows, but where it falls down is that the protagonist is not someone we already know. And, frankly, not someone I care about. Healing Thirst made me care about its protagonists, it gave them a lot of character and understanding, whereas this guy…was in a war? Killed people? Maybe? I don't know anything about him, because it's just that surreal nightmare nonsense over and over, but this time it's far less engaging. It doesn't help that this guy seems to have just murdered some sex workers, and there are women in his life but they only exist to be dead and motivate him, which. Ugh. I didn't like it at all.

The Lady of the Lanterns is the first of a duology following a set cast of characters - a pair of hunters, a boy whose sister was killed by the titular Lady of the Lanterns, and a few others. This explores a few things - the Chalice Dungeons, Queen Yharnam and the Pthumerians, the Winter Lanterns and the Chime Maidens. The latter two seem to be conflated, or at least placed together, which is an interesting place to go. The stories here are interesting, switching between the Hunter and her apprentice, the boy struggling to survive and his sister waiting for their father to return with food, the old Hunter that they try and help - it's all a very coherent story from the world of Bloodborne, and I really engaged with all of the characters here. I felt like the story telegraphed their whole deals really well, and I thought it was interesting. Although, did the boy really have to have a fridged sister? C'mon.

The Bleak Dominion continues the story, with the boy having been apprenticed to the Hunters until he went rogue, hearing the voice of his dead sister imploring him to lead the Hunters into a trap for Queen Yharnam, who rules the Chalice Dungeons. The Dungeons themselves are just sort of treated as a fact in the world of Bloodborne, so I think it's interesting to see the characters reacting to them being this strange, otherworldly, nightmarish thing. Similarly, seeing the Chime Maidens respawning enemies is just sort of a thing that happens in video games, but imagine seeing that in real life? Nightmarish! That's the strength of these two comics, I think, they take things from the video game and place them into more of a realistic setting, and that makes the reader reevaluate exactly what these kind of things would be if you encountered them in real life.