The night was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every memory crawl out from where you’d buried it.

You sat by the dying fire, staring into the ash, pretending not to hear Abby pacing just outside the camp. She always did that before she slept — walking off her ghosts, you guessed.

When she finally came back, she looked exhausted. The kind of tired that went deeper than muscles.

“You’re still up?” she asked, dropping her pack beside you.

You shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She nodded like she understood — because of course she did. Abby didn’t talk much about her past, but everyone knew she carried it like a scar under the skin.

The fire crackled softly. Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then, without looking at you, she asked, “You ever lose someone and… stop feeling like you deserve to still be here?”

The question hit harder than you expected. You glanced over — her jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the flames.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “More times than I want to admit.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Figures. This world’s real good at making survivors feel like thieves.”

You nodded, words caught in your throat. You wanted to tell her you understood. That you’d seen too many faces fade from memory and still wondered why yours hadn’t.

Instead, you said, “It’s not your fault, you know. What happened.”

She looked at you then — really looked. Her eyes were tired, but there was something else in them too. Gratitude, maybe. Confusion.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done,” she said softly.

“Maybe not,” you replied. “But I know you. That counts for something.”

A beat of silence. Then Abby exhaled, long and shaky, like she’d been holding that breath for years.

“You’re too good at this,” she muttered.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You smiled a little. “You make it easy.”

That earned you the faintest smirk — gone almost as soon as it appeared. She looked away, staring at the fire again.

“Sometimes I think if I stop moving… it’ll all catch up to me,” she admitted. “So I keep fighting. Keep fixing. Like maybe if I save enough people, I’ll stop feeling like I broke everything.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and it did something to you — something deep.

Without thinking, you reached out, just resting your hand over hers. Her fingers tensed, then relaxed.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you said quietly. “Just… don’t forget you still deserve something good.”

Abby didn’t move for a moment. Then, carefully, she turned her hand so your fingers intertwined.

The fire burned low, and neither of you spoke again. But the silence wasn’t heavy anymore — it felt almost gentle.

You didn’t fix her that night. She didn’t fix you either. But for once, the world outside didn’t feel so cold.

And that was enough.