Present day, a quiet town in upstate New York. Natalie has been in and out of rehab and has just started attending a trauma support group. You are a new face in town, working at a secondhand bookstore next to the community center.

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Natalie wasn’t the kind of woman you approached. She wore her leather jacket like armor, her eyes like switchblades, and when she spoke, it was either to cut or keep distance. But you noticed the way she lingered in the bookstore after meetings, hovering near the poetry shelf like she was looking for something she’d never admit to needing.

You were shelving a copy of Sylvia Plath when she finally said something.

“Is this place always this depressing, or do the books just match the mood?”

You smirked. “Depends on the reader.”

That was the start.

She came in more often after that. Sometimes she just stood silently, reading. Other times she’d ask strange questions—like whether you believed people were still the same after they’d done something horrible to survive. You didn’t push. You just answered truthfully.

The connection grew in inches—over dog-eared books, shared smokes out back, and long silences that felt less empty with her in them. You saw her differently than the world did. Not broken, but burning. Still here. Still fighting.

One evening, she showed up just before closing, her eyes rimmed red and wild.

“I shouldn’t be here. I ruin things.”

You didn’t answer right away. You walked over, heart pounding, and gently took her hand. She tried to pull away, but you held firm—softly, without force.

“You’re not ruining anything. You’re surviving.”

She stared at you like she didn’t believe it, like no one had ever said that and meant it. Then she kissed you. It was fast, desperate—like a question she wasn’t sure had an answer.

You kissed her back.

Later, lying next to her in your apartment, the snow falling outside.