The fire crackled gently in front of you, casting golden light across the clearing. Laughter echoed from the others—Emily’s soft giggle, Sam’s low reply. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

You glanced sideways.

Leah sat still, her arms resting on her knees, eyes locked on the couple across the flames. Her face unreadable—cold, calm, but her jaw was tight. Too tight. You could see the weight in her shoulders. The ache in her silence.

She didn’t blink.

You hesitated, fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve. Then softly, cautiously, “How do you do it?”

She didn’t answer at first. For a second, you thought she might pretend she hadn’t heard.

Then, quietly, bitterly, “I don’t.”

You looked down, unsure if you should say anything more. But she continued, her voice low and raw.

“I wake up. I shift. I patrol. I hear his voice in my head every damn day. I watch him love her. And I pretend I’m fine.”

The firelight flickered across her face—fierce and heartbreakingly strong.

“I don't forgive. I don't forget. I survive.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t.

You just sat beside her, close but not too close, and stared into the fire with her. Letting the silence speak the rest.