The sound of silence
Chance's POV: future
The thing about grief is that it doesn’t hit all at once. It’s not a storm, not some violent, crashing wave that drowns you in one go. It’s quieter than that. Slower. Like a slow leak in a sinking boat—you don’t notice it at first, not really.
And then, one day, you look down, and the water’s up to your chest.
Chance had never been good at dealing with things head-on. He was the type to smirk through the worst of it, to laugh in the face of things he couldn’t control. It was easier that way. Always had been.
So, yeah. He was fine.
Most days.
He still showed up when he was needed. Still threw around his usual grins, still played his part like nothing had changed. And maybe, to anyone looking from the outside, nothing had.
But in the quiet moments, the ones where no one was around to see—those were different.
His shoulder ached sometimes, the scar pulling just enough to remind him it was still there.
Some days, he caught himself reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore, muscle memory acting faster than thought.
A hand that wasn’t there to brush against his.
A voice he’d never hear again cutting through the silence.
He didn’t talk about it. Not really.
Instead, he carried pieces of it with him.
Guest had never been sentimental, not in the way most people were, but there were things he’d kept around. A watch that didn’t even work half the time. A cigarette lighter he never used. A chain that hung around his neck for as long as Chance had known him, warm from resting against his skin.
Chance had it now. Kept it looped around his fingers more often than not, the weight of it grounding in a way he didn’t like to think too hard about.
The others didn’t ask.
Maybe they knew better. Maybe they just didn’t know how.
Either way, Chance wasn’t sure what he would’ve said if they did.
Some days were easier than others. Some days, he could almost forget the weight pressing against his ribs, the empty space beside him that would never quite feel right.
He could still hear him sometimes, could still picture the exact way Guest would smirk at him from across the room, the way his voice dipped just slightly when he was amused.
- "You love me anyway."
Chance exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that would clear it away.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who believed in ghosts, not really. But maybe, if they did exist, Guest would’ve been the type to stick around just to mess with him.
The thought made him smile, even if it was small.
Even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Some days, Chance caught himself talking like Guest was still here.
Little things—offhanded comments meant for no one, sarcastic remarks tossed into empty rooms, half a grin directed at the open air like he was still waiting for some smart-ass response that wasn’t coming.
He never realized he was doing it until after. Until the silence stretched out too long, pressing heavy against his ribs, making it harder to breathe.
And then he’d go quiet again.
It was stupid. He knew that.
Guest wasn’t here.
Guest wasn’t anywhere.
But that didn’t stop his presence from lingering like an old habit, impossible to shake.
It was in the weight of the chain wrapped around his fingers, cool against his skin. In the scuffed-up lighter tucked into his pocket, even though Chance didn’t smoke. In the ghost of bruises on his collarbone that had long since faded, but still felt like they were there if he pressed hard enough.
It was in the scar on his shoulder, too. The way it pulled when he moved too fast, the dull ache that never quite went away.
Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he traced the jagged edge of it absentmindedly, fingers ghosting over the raised skin. It should’ve been a reminder that he was still here, still breathing—but more often than not, it just felt like a reminder of everything that wasn’t.
He tried not to think about it too much.
Didn’t always work.
The first time he forgot, really forgot, it hit him harder than he expected.
He’d been half-asleep on the couch, sprawled out in the same lazy way he always was, when he heard the door open. Footsteps.
It was late. Too late for anyone else to be awake.
And for one stupid, fleeting second, before his brain could catch up, he thought—
Guest.
Like he was just coming back from a smoke break. Like he’d been out too late, like he’d step into the room with that familiar smirk and toss some smart-ass remark his way before climbing into bed like he belonged there.
Like nothing had changed.
But then the footsteps stopped.
And the voice that followed wasn’t his.
- “You good?”
Chance blinked. Pulled himself out of that half-dream haze.
Elliot.
Not Guest.
Not even close.
- “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, sitting up a little too fast, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Elliot didn’t look convinced.
He hovered for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but then just nodded and turned away.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Chance let out a slow breath and leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He didn’t sleep after that.
Some nights were worse than others.
Most of the time, he could keep himself busy, keep his mind occupied with things that didn’t leave space for memories to creep in.
But some nights, the quiet pressed in too heavy, and the weight of it all settled into his chest like a stone.
Those were the nights when he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, turning the lighter over in his hands, flicking it open and closed.
It never lit. It wasn’t supposed to.
It was just something to do. Something to focus on.
He didn’t know why he kept it.
Guest had never even used it, not really. It was more of a habit than anything else, something to mess with when he was thinking, something that was always just there.
Now it was Chance’s.
And it still felt wrong in his hands.
He needed some fresh air.. He went for a walk
Chance's footsteps crunched against the dry, fallen leaves as he walked through the forest. The cool night air wrapped around him like a familiar, bitter cloak. His boots scuffed along the trail, mind wandering, the ache in his chest never quite fading. He didn’t really have a destination in mind; he wasn’t trying to get anywhere. Just walking. Just… moving.
The forest around him was thick with trees, their branches swaying slightly in the wind, casting long shadows under the pale light of the moon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out here, not like this. Not since… well, since.
He had a tendency to avoid places that made the memories feel sharper, places that held too much of him. Too many reminders. But tonight, for reasons he couldn’t even pinpoint, he’d left the cabin behind and found himself out here. Like his feet knew where to go even if his mind didn’t.
The trees seemed to close in around him, the quiet of the forest almost too much to bear. He could feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him, but he tried to push it away, to focus on the sound of his own breathing, the rustle of leaves in the distance.
Then his foot hit something soft, and he stumbled, stepping off the worn path into a small clearing.
His breath hitched.
It wasn’t the clearing itself that stopped him—it was the way the area seemed so familiar. The ground, uneven and scarred from years of feet racing across it. The trees that circled it like a forgotten arena. The patches of grass, the distant whisper of the wind through the branches.
And then, just like that, it hit him.
The memories.
He hadn’t even realized it at first. It was just a place.
But as his gaze swept over the clearing, he could almost hear it—the sound of laughter, the echoes of footsteps, the shouts as they chased each other.
He could see it in his mind, vivid as the day it happened: him and Guest, running, laughing..
Playing tag, acting like fools, as if the world didn’t weigh so damn heavy.
And it was just the two of them. No one else. No interruptions. No baggage. Just them, like it was always going to be that way. He could almost see the grin on Guest’s face as he darted past him, the way he’d always pretend to trip to get out of being tagged.
You’re so slow, Chance.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.
Chance stumbled backward, his foot catching on a root. He braced himself against one of the trees, but the feeling of the forest around him, so eerily familiar, seemed to press in on him. The weight of it was too much. The flood of memories was too much.
His breath quickened, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. His heart started to race, a panic creeping in, but he couldn’t make it stop. He had to get out of here. He should leave. The memories were suffocating him, dragging him down into the dark, making it harder and harder to breathe.
But his feet didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, his chest tight, his hands clenched at his sides.
And then it all came crashing down.
His knees hit the dirt before he even realized what was happening. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He let it happen, because it felt like everything he’d been holding in, everything he’d been trying so damn hard to pretend was fine, just… broke.
Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t try to wipe them away. He didn’t even care enough to stop.
The memories were there, like ghosts that refused to leave, haunting every corner of his mind, every inch of his body.
Guest wasn’t here anymore. He wasn’t anywhere.
His shoulders shook as the sobs racked through him, the weight of everything crashing down all at once, too much to handle, too much to keep pretending he could bear.
The laughter they’d shared, the way they’d fought over stupid things and then laughed about it.
The quiet moments where they’d just been.
The way it felt to have someone there, someone who just… understood.
And now, nothing. Just this. The empty space beside him that would never be filled, the silence that echoed louder than the noise of their shared memories.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.
Chance let out a broken sound that wasn’t quite a cry, his hands pressing into the dirt beneath him, grounding him, but nothing could stop the flood of everything he’d been holding back. The grief, the guilt, the ache. All of it.
I miss you, Guest. I miss you so goddamnmuch.
And just like that, the weight of the grief he’d been carrying, the pieces of him that had been fractured when everything changed, poured out. Uncontrolled. Unchecked.
It wasn’t a storm. It wasn’t a flood. It wasn’t a wave.
It was just the slow, steady collapse of everything he’d been pretending was fine.