#tw dead

The worst part wasn't the silence.

It was the hope.

Every time your phone lit up.

Every time footsteps echoed down the apartment hallway.

Every time someone knocked on your door.

For weeks you convinced yourself there had to be an explanation.

Johnny wouldn't just disappear.

Not Johnny.

Not after everything.

Then one afternoon you saw someone entering his apartment.

A tall man dressed in black.

A skull mask covering his face.

You almost laughed from relief.

Finally.

Finally, there was an answer.

Johnny had to be inside.

You knocked immediately.

The masked man opened the door after several moments.

You could see boxes stacked throughout the apartment behind him.

Furniture missing.

Drawers emptied.

Pieces of Johnny's life disappearing into cardboard.

And suddenly your relief vanished.

"Where's Johnny?"

The man's eyes changed.

Just for a second.

Something flickered there.

Pain.

Guilt.

Something you couldn't identify.

"He isn't here."

His voice was rough.

Quiet.

You hated it immediately.

"What do you mean he isn't here?"

You tried looking past him.

Searching for some sign of Johnny.

His jacket.

His laugh.

Anything.

The apartment looked hollow.

Empty.

Dead.

"When's he coming back?"

You asked.

The masked man didn't answer right away.

And that silence became your answer.

Your stomach dropped.

Because suddenly all the unanswered texts.

All the ignored calls.

All the waiting.

Started fitting together into something ugly.

"Oh."

The word came out smaller than you intended.

"Right."

The stranger said your name.

And that somehow made everything worse.

Because Johnny had talked about you.

Of course he had.

You laughed.

A horrible sound.

Thin and broken.

"That's embarrassing."

The masked man's hands tightened around the box he was carrying.

"I actually thought something happened to him."

You swallowed.

"I spent weeks worried."

Another laugh.

"I thought maybe he was hurt."

The stranger looked like he wanted to say something.

Desperately.

Like there were words clawing their way up his throat.

But they never came out.

Because Johnny had secrets.

And apparently one of those secrets was that he could leave without saying goodbye.

"So that's it?" you asked.

"He's just gone?"

The silence answered again.

You nodded slowly.

Trying to ignore the pressure building behind your eyes.

Trying to preserve what little dignity you had left.

"Tell him thanks."

The masked man flinched.

Actually flinched.

"For what?"

You smiled.

The kind that hurts.

The kind that doesn't reach your eyes.

"For letting me think I mattered."

Then you walked away.

Before the tears could start.

Before the stranger could say anything else.

Before you could humiliate yourself further.

The door closed behind you.

And for a long time Simon Riley stood motionless inside Johnny's apartment.

The box in his hands suddenly feeling impossibly heavy.

Because Johnny had cared.

God, he'd cared.

Simon remembered all the times Johnny talked about you.

The stupid smile he'd get whenever your name appeared on his phone.

The way he'd spent months trying to figure out how to officially ask you out.

The plans he'd had.

The future he'd wanted.

And now there was a woman across the hall who believed she'd been abandoned.

Who believed she'd been forgotten.

Who would probably spend years hating a man who had spent his final months falling in love with her.

Simon considered telling you.

For one brief moment.

He considered running after you.

Explaining everything.

Telling you that Johnny hadn't left.

That Johnny hadn't chosen this.

That Johnny's last text draft still sat unfinished in his phone.

That there had never been a goodbye because he'd never gotten the chance to give one.

But he couldn't.

Some truths died with soldiers.

So instead Simon finished packing the apartment.

Box after box.

Memory after memory.

Until there was nothing left.

Across the hall, you deleted Johnny's number that night.

Blocked it.

Deleted the photos.

Deleted the messages.

Deleted every piece of evidence that he'd ever existed in your life.

Then you cried until morning.

Not because he was dead.

You never knew he was dead.

You cried because you thought he'd chosen to leave.

And somehow, that felt worse.

Because death would have meant he wanted to stay.

But abandonment?

Abandonment meant he didn't.

And years later, long after the grief had settled into something quieter, you'd still occasionally catch yourself looking at men with mohawks in crowded places.

Still glance at your phone when it rang unexpectedly.

Still wonder what you'd done wrong.

Never knowing that somewhere in a box of Johnny's belongings sat a small velvet ring box.

Unopened.

Unused.

With your name written on a folded piece of paper tucked inside.

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