Guest never meant to find them.

They had been searching for one of their boots—the left one, which had mysteriously vanished after they'd crashed on Gaz’s bed the night before. They and the others had just gotten back from a brutal mission, exhaustion weighing heavy on their bones. Gaz had offered his room because their own had a broken heater, and they’d been too damn tired to argue.

Now, standing in his dimly lit room, they crouched down and reached beneath his bed, their fingers brushing against something that wasn’t leather or laces.

A stack of envelopes. Neatly arranged. Carefully placed.

Guest frowned and pulled them out, their boot momentarily forgotten. The first one was addressed to Price. The second, to Soap. The third, to Mom. The fourth, to Ghost.

Their heart squeezed. No.

They swallowed hard, their fingers trembling as they flipped through the rest. There were five in total. The last one had their name on it.

Guest sat back on their heels, staring at the letters as if they might disappear if they blinked. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. They wasn’t naive—they’d seen this before. Soldiers who carried too much. Who fought too long. Who never talked about the weight pressing down on them.

Gaz was always the one with the easy smile, the quiet strength. The one who kept them all together when the world went to hell. But these letters told a different story. A story of loneliness. Of pain. Of a battle he had been fighting on his own.

Their breath hitched as they traced the edge of the envelope with their name on it.

A floorboard creaked behind them. they turned sharply, their pulse hammering.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say.

Because how the hell do you ask someone why they were planning to say goodbye?