You’re gathering firewood when you hear her laugh—Melissa’s, soft and a little shaky—and it freezes you more than the cold ever could.

You glance over, just for a second. She’s sitting beside Shauna, knees tucked up to her chest, head tilted toward the fire like she’s trying to soak up every ounce of warmth it offers. Shauna’s beside her, close but detached, attention somewhere else entirely. She’s talking, gesturing lazily, not even looking at Melissa when she speaks.

Melissa nods, smiles, does that thing where she tugs at her sleeve with her thumb—nervous habit. You used to tease her for it. She’d roll her eyes and keep doing it just to be annoying, until you gave in and kissed her stupid little smirk.

When you look at her, you can’t help but remember.

One night, back when things still felt like yours, she’d slipped your glove off and traced your palm with the tip of her finger, slow and aimless.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only thing keeping me sane out here,” she’d whispered. And then, quieter: “Don’t leave me.”

You didn’t. Not until she left first.

You shift your gaze before it can linger too long, but not before she sees you. Not before your eyes meet across the camp. Just for a second.

Just long enough for something unspoken to pass between you.

Melissa’s smile falters.

She looks away first, and it hits you like a punch to the gut. You used to be the one she looked to for comfort. For softness. Now she’s curling up beside someone who barely acknowledges her, someone who spits out sharp words like they’re the only language she knows.

You pretend not to notice and keep walking. The branches in your arms dig into your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the sting in your chest.

She had a choice. She made it.

And you’re not sure what hurts more—the fact that she picked someone who doesn’t care, or the fact that she still looks at you like she regrets it.