The Book
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the wooden walls of the cabin. Outside, the wind had settled into a dull whisper, rustling through the trees like a distant memory.
It had been days.
The others were healing, slowly but surely. They were talking more, eating properly, trying to push forward. Even Two Time, ever-watchful, had eased up—letting himself rest, if only a little.
But Chance?
Chance was still frozen in time.
He spent his days in silence, moving through the cabin like a ghost, lingering in the places where Guest had stood, sat, breathed. The dog tag rarely left his grip, the cool metal a constant weight in his palm. He had tried to sleep in his own bed, once. But the emptiness had been unbearable.
So he kept coming back here.
To Guest’s room.
The air was thick with his absence, and yet his presence was still everywhere—woven into the fabric of the sheets, the scuffed floorboards where his boots had rested, the faintest trace of his cologne clinging to the edges of a jacket draped over the chair.
Chance sat on the floor now, pulling open drawers, searching through the things Guest had left behind. Not in some desperate attempt to move on—no, he wasn’t ready for that—but to find something, anything, to hold onto.
A shirt. A watch. A half-full pack of cigarettes he had sworn he was trying to quit.
And then—
A notebook.
It was buried at the back of the drawer, tucked away as if it had been meant to be forgotten. The cover was worn, the pages slightly curled at the edges, like it had been flipped through more times than Guest would ever admit.
Chance swallowed hard. He knew what this was.
Guest’s vent diary.
The one he used to write in when the nightmares got bad. When the weight of the past pressed too heavily on his chest.
Chance hesitated, his fingers ghosting over the cover. Part of him knew he shouldn’t read it. This had been personal, private.
But Guest was gone.
And Chance was still here.
With a shaky breath, he opened it.
The first few pages were hard to read. Messy handwriting, jagged words, the pain carved into every line. Guest had written about the war, the ghosts that followed him home, the nights he spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was even worth it to keep going.
"I don’t think I was meant to make it this far."
"I don’t know how to live with a heart that only beats out of habit."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see them. The ones I lost. The ones I failed. Maybe I was supposed to stay with them. Maybe I should have."
Chance’s breath hitched. His grip on the pages tightened.
He had known Guest struggled. He had seen the cracks in the armor, the way he carried his ghosts like a second skin.
But reading it—seeing the weight of it in his own words—made it feel so much heavier.
And then—
It got worse.
"I don’t think anyone would miss me if I left. Not really. They’d move on. They always do."
"Some nights, I sit with it. The thought. The idea of just… stopping. Walking into the woods and not coming back. Slipping into the river and letting it take me. Just lying down in the quiet and letting the world forget I was ever here."
Chance sucked in a sharp breath. His hands trembled.
"I thought about it last night. I went outside, just to see. Just to stand there in the dark and wonder how it would feel to let go."
"It’s peaceful, almost. The thought of ending. Of disappearing. No mess. No goodbyes. Just… nothing. And maybe nothing is better than this."
Chance’s stomach turned. His fingers dug into the edges of the paper as he forced himself to keep going.
"I know it would hurt them. And I hate that. I hate that I still care enough to hesitate. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding on."
His breath was uneven now. He could see it—Guest standing alone in the dark, staring out at the trees, the river, the quiet. He could see him teetering on that edge.
"I thought about wading in. Just walking forward until my body gave up, until the water closed over my head. I wonder if it would be cold. If I’d feel it, or if I’d just… drift."
"Or maybe the cliffs. It wouldn’t take much. Just one step forward. One second and it’s done. No more thinking. No more hurting. No more waking up to another day that feels exactly like the last."
Chance clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt.
"I got as far as the treeline. I stood there for a long time. Just breathing. Just listening."
"And then he called my name."
His breath caught.
The writing shifted here. Smaller, steadier.
"I don’t think he realizes what he does to me. The way he looks at me like I’m worth something. The way he says my name like it’s a reason to stay."
Chance let out a sound—somewhere between a sob and a broken gasp.
"I almost did it. I almost walked into the dark and didn’t come back. And then I heard him say my name, and suddenly, I couldn’t."
"I don’t think he’ll ever know he saved my life that night."
Chance was shaking. His whole body felt like it was caving in on itself.
He remembered that night.
He had been there.
He had stepped outside, looking for Guest, calling his name into the night. And Guest had answered.
And now—
Now he was gone anyway.
Another page. Another confession.
"If I lose him, I lose myself."
"I don’t want to go anywhere he can’t follow."
"For the first time, I have something to fight for."
And then, near the very end—
"If it ever comes down to it—if it’s him or me—I already know my choice. I’d die a thousand times over if it means he gets to live."
Chance let out a choked sob. His hands trembled, his body curling inward as if he could fold himself away from the pain.
Guest had known.
He had known.
And he had still chosen to go.
To leave Chance behind.
The dog tag slipped from his fingers, clattering softly against the wooden floor. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest aching with a grief so deep it felt like it might tear him apart from the inside.
This wasn’t fair.
Guest had wanted to live.
He had wanted to live.
But he had chosen Chance instead.
Chance clenched his fists against his temples, his whole body shaking. He wanted to scream, to tear something apart, to rage against the cruel, awful reality of it all.
But all that came out was another sob.
He curled over the notebook, pressing his forehead against the pages, as if somehow, some way, he could hold onto the words and bring him back.
But the ink didn’t warm under his touch.
The pages didn’t beat with a pulse.
Guest was gone.
And all Chance had left were the echoes of his love.
With trembling hands, he closed the notebook, holding it to his chest.
Chance wiped at his face with the back of his hand, fingers trembling as he turned the page. The words were smaller here, neater—like Guest had taken his time writing them, like he had wanted to get them right
"I had the nightmare again."
Chance's breath caught.
"Same as always. The river. The cliffs. The hands reaching for me, but I can’t tell if they’re pulling me under or trying to hold me back. I wake up before I hit the water, but it always feels like I was just drowning."
A pause. A shift in the handwriting, like he’d hesitated before continuing.
"I didn’t go outside this time. I thought about it, but my legs took me somewhere else instead."
"To him."
Chance’s heart clenched. He remembered that night.
Guest had shown up at his door, silent, tense, his eyes dark with something Chance had recognized all too well. Neither of them had said anything—Chance had just moved aside, letting him in.
Guest had sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, breathing too shallow. And Chance—Chance had just been there.
He forced himself to keep reading.
"I don’t know why I went to him. I think I just… I knew he’d let me stay."
"I laid down. Just for a minute, I told myself. Just to breathe."
"Then he touched me."
Chance sucked in a sharp breath.
"It was small. Just his fingers, threading through my hair. I tensed. I know I did. I think he thought I’d pull away."
"But I didn’t."
Chance could see it, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. The way Guest had gone rigid at first, his whole body locked up like he was waiting for something to go wrong. Like the touch wasn’t meant for him.
Chance had almost pulled back. Had almost let him be.
But then—Guest had melted.
"I don’t think I’ve ever let anyone do that before."
"Not like that. Not without wanting to run."
"But he was so careful. So damn careful. Like he was afraid I’d break."
Chance closed his eyes, gripping the notebook tighter. He could still feel it—Guest’s weight pressed against him, his breathing evening out beneath Chance’s fingertips.
Guest had fallen asleep like that.
Right there, in his arms.
And Chance had just kept running his fingers through his hair, listening to the steady, quiet rhythm of his breath.
He turned the page.
"I think that was the first time in a long time I actually slept."
"Not just passed out. Not just let exhaustion win. But actually… slept."
"I woke up on top of him. Which should have been embarrassing, but he didn’t say anything about it. He just looked at me like it was normal. Like I was supposed to be there."
Chance’s chest ached.
He had wanted Guest to be there.
Guest had looked at him that morning, groggy and a little dazed, his hair still a mess from Chance’s hands. For a second, Chance had thought he might pull away—might untangle himself and pretend like it never happened.
But he hadn’t.
He had just stayed there.
"I think about that night more than I should."
"The way his hands felt. The way his voice sounded, all low and steady when he told me I could stay as long as I needed."
"The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t something broken."
Chance let out a shuddering breath.
He turned to the next page, desperate now—desperate for more, for anything that kept Guest alive, even if only in ink.
And there it was.
One last thought, scrawled at the bottom of the page.
"I think I could love him."
Chance clutched the notebook to his chest, curling over it like he could somehow hold onto him.