The wind moaned through the cracks in the rotting cabin walls, biting and sharp, like it had teeth and was hungry too.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, spine pressed hard to the outer wall. Your breath curled in the cold air like smoke, your lips chapped, your skin tight with the ache of surviving. Somewhere behind you, the others murmured inside, their voices muffled by wood and snow. Someone laughed. Someone coughed. Someone cried.

And you— You just sat there. Tired. Fractured. Trying to disappear into the night.

Your fingers were numb, buried deep in your coat. You didn’t even realize tears had started to fall until they burned trails down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, even though there was no one to see. Or maybe you hoped there wasn’t.

But then the door creaked open behind you.

You froze.

Footsteps in the snow. Light ones. Hesitant. Familiar.

Shauna.

You knew it was her without even turning your head. There was something about the way she moved—careful, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to take up space anymore. You used to know everything about her. Now it felt like you were relearning her language, piece by broken piece.

She didn’t speak at first. She just stood there, half-shadowed, hugging herself.

“I heard you leave,” she said quietly. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too heavy. You kept your eyes on the trees, skeletal and swaying like dancers too exhausted to keep time.

Shauna came closer. Sat down next to you.

And for a long time, neither of you said anything.

Your shoulders were almost touching. Close enough to share heat, if not words. You didn’t move away.

“Do you remember,” she murmured finally, “when we used to walk to school in the mornings? I’d wait outside your window and tap until you came down.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. You always stole my gloves.”

“They were warmer,” she said, nudging you lightly. “Yours always were.”

You turned your head, just enough to see her out of the corner of your eye. Her hair was stringy now, her face hollowed by hunger and frost, but her eyes—those soft, storm-colored eyes—still looked the same.

She was trying. You could see it.

So were you.

“I miss that,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Being… us.”

You blinked. Swallowed the ache. “Yeah.”

Her fingers brushed yours. Barely. Like she was afraid she didn’t have permission.

You didn’t stop her.

“You never look at me like that anymore,” she said, and the words landed like snow: soft, cold, heavy with weight.