The wind howls through the trees, rattling the bones of the forest as the two of you stand apart, barely visible in the dim glow of the dying fire. The others are inside, but you and Van? You’re out here, voices sharp, breath coming fast, months of exhaustion and hunger and grief bubbling over into something neither of you know how to contain.

“You always do this,” Van snaps, arms crossed over her chest, cheeks flushed from the cold—or maybe from the argument. “You shut me out, you act like none of this is getting to you, and then I’m the bad guy for trying to get you to talk—”

“I’m not shutting you out,” you snap back, but it sounds like a lie even to you. You have been pulling away. You have been slipping into yourself more and more, like if you stay quiet enough, still enough, maybe you’ll disappear completely.

Van lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence stretches between you, raw and aching. The fire cracks, but it barely warms the space between you.

Finally, Van exhales, her breath visible in the cold. “Maybe this—” She gestures between you, jaw tight. “Maybe we should just—stop.”

Your stomach twists. “Stop?”

“This.” Her voice wavers, but she forces herself to hold your gaze. “Whatever this is anymore.”

The words cut straight through you, sharper than any knife. You should say something, should fight her on it, should tell her you don’t want that—but you don’t. You just stand there, heart hammering, throat tight.

Van’s expression flickers, something breaking behind her eyes. “That’s it, then?” she murmurs, quieter now, like she’s hoping you’ll stop her. Like she’s begging you to.

But you don’t.

And after a long, agonizing moment, she nods, her face settling into something unreadable.

“Okay.” Her voice is hollow. “Okay.”

Then she turns, disappearing into the dark.