The wilderness had a way of stripping everything down to its rawest form. Out here, there was no team captain, no perfect Jackie Taylor — just a girl who was slowly unraveling. The others didn’t see it, not at first. Jackie was good at keeping up appearances. Even when food was running out and the nights grew colder, she still carried herself with that effortless grace, chin high, smile intact. But cracks were beginning to show.

It was in the way her hands trembled when she laced up her boots in the morning, fingers fumbling where they never had before. In the distant look in her eyes when she stared out past the trees, like she was trying to pretend she wasn’t here that she was anywhere but here. You noticed the way she distanced herself from the others, lingering on the edges of conversations that used to revolve around her. Jackie had always been the center of attention, the glue that held everyone together. That charm wasn’t enough to fill empty stomachs or light the fire when the wind seeped through the cabin walls.

“Why don’t they listen to me anymore?” she asked you one night, her voice barely above a whisper as she hugged her knees to her chest. The firelight highlighting the exhaustion in her eyes.

“They’re scared,” you murmured, careful with your words. “We all are.”

Jackie’s jaw clenched, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I’m scared too,” she admitted, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. Those words strung together almost felt foreign coming from her.

As the days stretched on, Jackie’s detachment grew. She was trying to hold on, but you could feel her slipping. She didn’t hunt. She didn’t forage. She sat by the fire, wrapped in her coat, her once-bright spirit dimming with each passing day. The others whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear, questioning her usefulness, her place among them. But Jackie wasn’t built for survival — she was built for a world where things made sense, where charm and beauty could get her anything she wanted. Out here? None of that mattered.