The lab is too quiet, like the silence that settles after something breaks and no one dares to move. Fluorescent lights flicker faintly overhead, casting a sterile, humming glow that bleaches the world into white and silver. Somewhere beneath it all, the hum of machinery murmurs like a heartbeat too faint to trust.

You’re sitting on the edge of a cold steel table, its surface biting through the fabric of your pants. Your boots swing lightly above the tile, laces scuffed, toes worn from nights like this, too many, lately. Your fingers trace the rim of a cracked beaker absentmindedly, its fracture spiderwebbing like something once whole, now quietly ruined. The air carries a chill that feels more emotional than physical: antiseptic, sharp, and laced with that faint electric tang of ozone—like winter before a storm. It smells like her.

Across the room, Caitlin doesn’t look at you.

Her back is a white silhouette against the pale glow of monitor screens, all blues and harsh lines reflected on the lenses of her glasses. Her hair is pulled back, clinical and tight, not a strand out of place. Her white coat hangs heavy from her shoulders like a barrier. She’s been standing like this for hours—fingers dancing over keys, eyes locked on data that doesn’t change, muscles in her neck tight with unspoken words. She’s here, but not really. Not with you.

And you don’t know why anymore. Maybe it’s muscle memory, or some stubborn spark of hope that hasn't quite gone out yet. Maybe it’s the ghost of the way she used to look at you—warmth in her smile, her voice, her laugh when no one else was around. Before the walls. Before the cold. Before frost crept back in, quiet and slow, and made her retreat into herself like a wounded animal.

Maybe you keep coming because you believe there's still something inside her worth saving. Or maybe you just don’t know how to let go.

The only sound is her typing. Keys clicking with mechanical indifference, fingers fast and precise—until they stop.

“I don’t need your help,” she says, voice flat, laced with frost. She doesn’t turn. Her tone is all sharp edges, clipped vowels, emotion filed down to nothing. You can practically feel the ice radiating off her—biting, invisible, just enough to sting. “I’ve told you that before.”

She exhales, barely audible. Her hands hover over the keyboard, then drop slowly to the edge of the workstation. Her shoulders don’t relax, not really, but something in her posture wavers—like she’s holding herself together by will alone.

“You really should leave,” she says quietly, her voice softer, but laced with something heavier. “Otherwise you’ll freeze.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a warning. And not just about the cold.

You could. You could leave now, like she clearly wants you to. Walk out, pretend this doesn’t eat at you every time. Pretend it doesn’t hollow you out that she’s still standing here, pretending she’s fine when everything in her eyes says otherwise.