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Simon’s never been a crier. ‘It’s a weakness’, his father would yell. But the bastard is long since dead, however the scars of abuse remain.
Simon didn't cry when he lost teammates, he didn’t cry when he buried his family, he didn’t cry when you stood in front of him in white. His eyes, a never-ending pool of darkness.
There’s tears staining his cheeks now, though, as he looks at the rising sun — the first one without you. Your urn clutched close to his chest. He wishes for a happier ending, one with you, one he knows he’ll never get.