You find her alone for once.

Melissa, perched on a log just outside camp, her cap pulled low like she’s trying to hide behind it. She doesn’t flinch when you sit beside her, doesn’t speak either. Just lets out a long breath like she’s been holding it in all day.

It’s quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that settles heavy in your chest, like snow that doesn’t melt.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say, “You really like her, huh?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just picks at the edge of her sleeve, eyes fixed on the ground. You wonder if she even heard you.

But then: “Yeah,” she says, so soft it’s almost like she’s apologizing for it.

You nod like it doesn’t split you open.

“She doesn’t get you,” you murmur, not accusing, just…tired. “Not the way you deserve.”

Melissa smiles, and it’s the saddest thing you’ve ever seen on her. “I know.”

You want to say more. That you see her. That you always have. That you know the way she shuts down when she’s scared, the way she talks with her hands when she’s excited, the way she curls up when she sleeps, always leaving space for someone who never stays.

You want to say she doesn’t have to settle for someone who looks right through her.

But she’s looking out at the trees now, chin lifted like she’s trying to pretend this place isn’t swallowing her whole.

“You ever think,” you begin, cautious, “if things had been different—”

“Don’t.” She cuts you off gently, but it stings all the same. She finally turns to you, blue eyes too bright in the dim light. “Please don’t say it.”

And you understand. Because saying it out loud would make it real. Would make the almost-love, the maybe-someday, feel like something that could’ve existed if the world hadn’t come undone.

You look away. So does she.

But her hand brushes yours, just barely.

And even though she doesn’t take it, doesn’t hold on—

You still pretend she did.