Echoes of a Broken Heart
The nightmare came again.. Even worse then before
It was always the same—dark, suffocating, thick with the weight of something inevitable.
Chance stood in the middle of the clearing, the moon cold and indifferent above them. The wind whispered through the trees, but it carried no warmth, no comfort. Just silence. Just the moment before everything shattered.
And then—Guest.
He stood across from him, the shadows catching on the sharp lines of his face, his eyes steady in the dim light. There was something different about him in the dream—something knowing. Like he had seen this coming before it even began.
- "I'm going to tell you something tonight, Chance," Guest said, voice calm, measured. "Something that will put my life in your hands."
Chance felt his breath hitch, fingers twitching at his sides.
- "How do you know you can trust me?" he asked. His voice sounded foreign, distant, like it wasn't even his own.
Guest smiled—small, tired.
- "Because I love you," he said simply. "And I believe you love me."
Chance swallowed hard, his heart pounding, a sick sense of inevitability settling in his chest.
Guest took a step closer, and Chance could see it now—the rawness in his gaze, the quiet desperation he was trying so hard to keep hidden.
- "You may as well take my life, Chance," he murmured. "It's already full of you."
Chance's breath hitched.
Guest's voice was softer now, but no less certain.
- "You're something to believe in again," he said, and there was something almost reverent in the way he looked at him. "The type of person that was made for me."
Chance shook his head.
-"Don't say shit like that," he muttered, the weight of it settling too heavily in his chest.
- "I'm serious," Guest pressed. "I’ve spent so long running from everything, but you—you make me want to stop. To stay."
Chance clenched his jaw, the words hitting something deep inside of him.
- "You're talking like this is some kind of story with a happy ending," he bit out. "But it’s not. We both know that."
Guest exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.
- "Maybe it’s not about the ending," he said. "Maybe it’s about what we do with the time we have."
Chance let out a bitter laugh.
- "And what if the time we have isn't enough?"
Guest smiled—just barely, but it was there.
- "Then we make it count."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
And then—Chance felt it.
The weight in his hand. The cold metal pressing against his palm.
A gun.
He didn’t remember picking it up. Didn’t remember drawing it. But it was there now, solid and undeniable, his fingers wrapped tightly around the grip.
Guest’s gaze flickered down to it, then back up to him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
- "Careful what you say next," Chance warned, his voice low, dangerous. "This is a gun in my hand, Guest."
Guest tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
- "I know."
Chance’s grip tightened. His breathing was unsteady.
- "You don't."
- "I do," Guest murmured. "And I still trust you."
The words burned.
Chance’s chest was tight, his vision narrowing, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a slow, inevitable collapse.
- "You shouldn’t," he whispered.
Guest took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Chance’s.
- "I do."
And something in Chance snapped.
The gun was up before he even realized it, the weight of it familiar in his grip, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Guest didn’t move.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t look away.
- "Pull the trigger," Guest said softly.
Chance’s breath came in shallow gasps, his hands shaking.
And then—
Bang.
The sound shattered through the air like a thunderclap.
Guest's body jerked. Blood bloomed across his chest. His eyes widened—shocked, pained—before his knees buckled.
He was falling.
Chance reached for him, but it was too late.
Guest hit the ground.
And then—
Chance woke up.
–––
His breath came in ragged gasps, his body jerking upright before he even knew what was happening. His chest was heaving, his skin damp with sweat. His fingers were clenched so tightly around guest's shirt that his knuckles had gone white.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The dream still clung to him, the gunshot ringing in his ears, the ghost of blood staining his hands.
But the worst part—the worst part—was that it wasn’t just a dream.
Guest was gone.
And it was because of him.
Not by his hand, no. But it didn’t matter.. In his eyes, it was his fault.. Just like in the dream
Guest had made his choice. He had thrown himself into the fire for Chance. Had died so that Chance could keep living.
And now, all Chance could do was wake up to the nightmare of that reality, over and over again.
With a trembling breath, he buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes, trying to block it all out.
But no matter how hard he tried, the echoes of Guest’s voice lingered.
"I love you."
"I believe you love me."
"You’re something to believe in again."
Chance let out a broken sound—something between a sob and a breathless laugh, shaking his head as he pressed his forehead against his knees.
Guest had believed in him. Had trusted him.
And now, he was nothing more than a memory.
Nothing more than empty pages in a book that would never be filled.
Chance clenched his fists.
The grief sat heavy in his chest, but beneath it, something else was stirring now—something sharp. Something cold.
Guest had died for him.
He couldn't let that be for nothing.
With a deep, unsteady breath, he forced himself to his feet. The cabin was quiet, the fire nothing more than dying embers in the hearth. The world kept moving, even when it felt like it shouldn’t.
And so—so would he.
For Guest.
For what they could have had.
For the love that would never be spoken aloud.
For the story that would never have its happy ending.
The morning was quiet. Too quiet.
Chance felt it the moment he stepped out of his room—an unnatural stillness settling over the cabin like a thick fog. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that came when people didn’t know what to say.
The kitchen smelled like coffee, eggs, something fried—but the scent barely registered. He was running on autopilot as he stepped inside.
Elliot and Two Time were already there.
Elliot stood near the stove, arms crossed, gaze sharp but weary.
Two Time sat at the table, lazily pushing a fork through a plate of food he wasn’t eating.
The rest of them—007N7, C00lkidd, Shedletsky, Builderman, Noob—were scattered around the room, some eating, some talking in low murmurs.
Existing. But none of them looked at him. Not directly.
Except for Elliot and Two Time.
- “You look like hell.”
Chance exhaled, heading straight for the coffee pot.
- “Yeah. That’s been going around.”
He poured himself a cup, the warmth seeping into his fingers. His hands weren’t shaking anymore. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
???? - “Didn’t sleep again, did you?”
Chance didn’t answer. He took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground him.
Elliot sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
- “You can’t keep doing this.”
- “Doing what?”
- “This.” Elliot gestured at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the way he was gripping his mug like it was the only thing holding him together. “Acting like you’re fine when we all know you’re not.”
- “I don’t need a lecture, Elliot.”
???? - “No, but you do need a wake-up call.” Two Time leaned back in his chair, tapping his fork against the plate. “You think you’re the only one who lost something? We all did.”
Chance stiffened.
- “I know that.”
???? - “Do you?” Two Time’s voice was sharper now. “Because it sure as hell looks like you’re carrying it alone.”
- “Because I am alone.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, cold and bitter. “Guest is gone. And it’s my fault.”
The room went silent.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then—
- “That’s bullshit.”
Chance’s grip on the mug tightened.
- “Elliot—”
- “No.” Elliot’s voice was firm, unwavering. “You think Guest would want this? You think he’d want you tearing yourself apart over something you couldn’t stop?”
- “I could have stopped it.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I should have—”
???? - “But you didn’t.” Two Time cut him off, standing now. “And that’s what’s killing you, isn’t it?”
Chance didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
Elliot sighed again, softer this time.
- “We miss him too, Chance.”
Chance swallowed hard, staring down at his coffee.
- “Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I know.”
Time skip, later
The room was suffocatingly quiet. The air seemed thick with the weight of something unspeakable. It was almost as if the walls themselves could feel the heaviness pressing down on Chance’s chest.
He sat at the edge of Guest's bed, the gun lying heavy in his hands. It had been so easy in the dream. The cold metal, the sharp finality of the moment—everything had been so clear. The weight of it, the certainty. It had felt like the only answer, the only escape. The only way to stop the pain.
But now, here in this room—Guest's room—the reality felt different. The gun was real. The echo of bloodstains and screams felt too vivid, too close. He stared at the gun, the same one from his dream, and his mind twisted with the thought of ending it. Of ending the nightmare. Of ending the grief.
His hands trembled, his fingers running over the cold steel of the weapon. He could feel it—the weight of what it would mean. His breath caught as the thought curled in his mind again: Just pull the trigger. It would be so easy. So final.
He could end it all. The guilt. The pain. The regret.
But then, as the thought settled into his chest, something stopped him.
Guest's face. That moment.
The look in his eyes, the rawness of it. The trust.
It had been so clear, hadn’t it? The way Guest had protected him, had thrown himself in the way of death just to give Chance a fighting chance.
Chance had been there in his final moments. He remembered it all too well. The blood, the desperate way Guest had fought to stay alive, to hold on for just a little longer, just so Chance could live.
That’s what Guest had died for. Not for this.
Not for Chance to be another casualty. Not for him to follow him into the dark.
The memories flooded him—the bloodstained room, the way Guest’s hand had trembled in his, the way his breath had come in shallow gasps as he tried to speak, tried to say something important before the light had dimmed in his eyes forever.
"I’m sorry," he had whispered in those final moments. "I couldn’t... I couldn’t keep you safe."
Chance’s heart stopped in his chest.
Guest had never blamed him. Not once. His last breath had been spent in the hope that Chance would keep going, that he would survive—because he believed in him. Even as death claimed him, Guest had believed in him.
And now, here Chance was, thinking of throwing it all away.
The weight of the gun in his hands became unbearable, each second dragging him closer to a breaking point he didn’t know if he could survive. His mind flashed with dark thoughts, images of the gun pressed to his temple, the trigger pulled, the sweet release of an end that would never come.
But Guest wouldn’t want that.
Guest wouldn’t want him to die.
No, Guest had wanted him to live. To survive the pain. To keep going even when it felt like the world was too heavy to bear.
The tears came, hot and blinding, as Chance's grip on the gun loosened. His chest shook with the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had done, and everything that would never be again.
He couldn’t stop crying. Not anymore. His chest felt like it was going to collapse under the weight of the grief. Guest’s voice echoed in his mind, soft and full of love, of faith, of trust.
“You’ll be okay.”
“Just... don’t give up.”
Chance squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to block out the endless waves of sorrow crashing over him.
His hands were slick with sweat now, the gun slipping slightly from his grip as the weight of the moment pressed him deeper into despair.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he could feel the darkness pulling at the edges of his thoughts.
He could hear the world spinning around him, but all he could hear, all he could feel, was the deafening silence of his own broken heart.
Guest was gone. And it was his fault. He had failed him. Failed to protect him. Failed to be the person Guest had believed he was.
It felt like too much.
But somewhere in that deep abyss of sorrow, buried under the guilt and the pain, was a whisper. A faint echo. It was faint, but it was enough to stop him, enough to remind him:
Guest wouldn't want this.
He would never want Chance to follow him into the dark. He had wanted Chance to live. To keep fighting. Even now, even in death, he wanted that for him.
And so, with shaking hands, Chance placed the gun down on the bed beside him, as though the weight of it would never leave.
But it didn’t matter. He would carry it. He would carry the grief, the love, the memory of Guest’s last words. He would carry them because that was the only thing he could do now. He couldn’t erase the past. He couldn’t make everything right again.
But he could keep going.
For Guest.
For the man who had died believing in him.
For the love that would never fade.