The rescue felt surreal. After 19 months in the wilderness, the sound of helicopters, the rush of paramedics, the weight of real clothes against your skin—it was all too much, too fast. You barely had time to process it before you were being ushered onto a plane, wrapped in a blanket, hands trembling as you stared out the window. Jackie sat across from you, her face unreadable, the dirt and hunger erased by clean clothes and soft lighting. But you still saw her as she was out there—lips chapped from the cold, hands gripping yours beneath furs, whispering your name in the dead of night.

Now, in the real world, she didn’t look at you.

The days blurred together—press conferences, psychologists, whispered conversations you weren’t ready to have. You told your families you were okay. You told the world you were grateful. And yet, the only thing you could feel was the loss of something you hadn’t even known you could have.

Jackie was back with Jeff within a week.

You saw them together when he visited your hospital room, one both you and jackie were forced to share — his arm slung around her shoulders, her laugh just a little too forced. It made you sick. Because you knew how she looked when she was real, when the masks were stripped away. You knew how she kissed when no one was watching, how she clung to you in the dark when the weight of survival became unbearable.

You swallowed, throat tight as you stared at her. ‘Say something, Jackie. Acknowledge it.’ But she didn’t.

Instead, she let out a breath, forcing a small, hollow smile. “Jeff’s coming soon,” she said, like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t kissed you breathless just days ago, fingers tangled in your hair as if you were the only thing anchoring her to this world.