#therapy arc

Swallow it down. Breathe. Get through the hour.

She tilts her head, watching him like she sees right through the Kevlar. That pisses him off.

Then she stands. Walks to the door.

His body tenses, instinct ready to follow, but she’s not leaving. She opens the door, peeks out into the hallway.

“No one’s out there,” she says gently. Closes the door. Click.

Then, the lights go off. The room softens into a dim golden haze beneath a single lamp.

“There,” she sighs. “That’s better.”

Ghost narrows his eyes. “What is this? Mood lighting? Cozy interrogation?”

She doesn’t answer. Just sits — on the couch, not in her chair. Not too close.

He folds his arms tighter. A fortress in human form.

“This where you lean in and say something warm to crack me open?” he mutters. “Not my first rodeo.”

She says nothing. Just waits. Calm. Like she’s got all day.

He glares at the wall.

“I lost him,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “Price.”

Still silence. Not the cold kind — the kind that makes space.

“It went sideways. Intel was garbage. I should’ve seen it. Should’ve been faster. One second of hesitation and—” He shakes his head. “That’s all it takes.”

His hand tightens on his knee. Fingernails digging in. Trying to stay grounded.

“I’m supposed to keep people alive. That’s the fookin’ job. He trusted me.”

A breath. Sharp. Bitter.

“And I left him behind in a body bag.”

He finally looks up. Eyes burning, red with rage and guilt, the kind that eats you alive from the inside out.

“You think talking about it makes it hurt less?” he scoffs. “Like crying’s gonna bring him back?”

“No,” she says. “But maybe carrying it alone is killing you, too.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Breath hitching.

Ghost leans forward now. Elbows on his knees. Mask still on, always on, but something in his posture begins to unravel.

“You know,” she says softly, “every time you come in here, you sit like a coiled spring.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares at the floor. Thinking about the desert. About Price’s voice right before the comms went dead.

She leans in slightly. Not threatening. Just present.

“Simon,” she says — and the name lands heavy in the room. She rarely uses it.

His head lifts, just a bit.

“You talk like you’re a failure. Like it’s all your fault. Like losing him means you don’t deserve peace.”

A pause.

“But I don’t think this is about blame. I think it’s about punishment.”

His jaw clenches. Breath held. She touched something raw.

“You want to keep hurting,” she says. “Because if you let it go, it feels like he didn’t matter.”

Ghost exhales through his nose, sharp. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not,” she says, steady. “But you are.”

He stands. Pacing now. Energy erratic.

“I don’t cry,” he snaps. “I don’t sit here and… and fold like some broken toy.”

“No,” she says. “You sit here and lie.”

He freezes. Turns.

“Excuse me?”

“You lie,” she repeats. “Every time you say you’re ‘good.’ Every time you walk in here with blood under your nails and pretend it’s just another day. You’re not a statue, Simon. You’re a man. And you’re in pain.”

The silence after is deafening.

“I’m not weak.”

“No one said you were,” she replies. “But you’re human. You’re grieving. And you’ve built a fortress so tall, even you can’t get inside.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

She steps forward slowly. Controlled. Stops just short of touching distance.

“And maybe,” she adds, “what scares you most isn’t the pain. It’s that you don’t know who you are without it.”

That’s the line.

The one that splinters him.

He backs up, slow. Shaking his head. But then he stops. Fists clenched. Voice like gravel.

“I can’t keep carrying it. I thought I could. But I can’t.”

She nods. No judgment.

“Then let it down. Just for a second. Just here.”

“I don’t know how,” he says.

“Yes, you do,” she answers. “You’re doing it right now.”

He looks at her. Really looks. Eyes glassy. Haunted. Like a man who still hears gunfire in the quiet.

She gestures toward the couch.

“Sit,” she says gently. “The door’s closed. The world isn’t watching. You can stop pretending.”

His knees give a little. The weight finally lands.

He sinks down.

For a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a ghost.

Just Simon.

And for the first time in a long time—

He lets himself cry.

She leans in, voice soft but steady.

“You don’t have to be strong here. I can handle it.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

He tries to hold it in. To cage it behind ribs and bone.

But it cracks — not gentle. Not quiet.

Full-body sobs, years overdue. The kind you choke on.

He turns away, ashamed.

But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stays.

Still. Steady.

Sometimes it isn’t about fixing anything.

Sometimes it’s just about knowing the door is closed—