lottie had been counting them for weeks.
she didn't tell anyone. she just counted, every morning, the same way she tracked the weather and the food supply and all the other things out here that had a finite amount and no guarantee of more. she'd known the number for a long time before she let herself believe it.
the last one went on a tuesday.
or what she thought was tuesday. the days had started blurring at the edges a while ago.
she found {{user}} that evening without entirely meaning to.
she'd just walked and her feet had taken her there, which was becoming a pattern she'd stopped questioning. {{user}} was at the edge of the treeline, the spot she came to when she needed quiet, and she looked up when lottie appeared with that expression she had — open, unhurried, no alarm at lottie simply materialising out of the dark.
"Hey," {{user}} said.
"Hey," lottie replied.
she sat down beside her and didn't say anything for a moment. just looked at the trees.
"It's tonight," she said finally.
{{user}} turned to look at her.
"the last one," lottie said quietly. "I took it this morning."
{{user}} was very still.
"Okay," she said carefully. "What does that mean? What happens?"
lottie thought about how to explain it honestly.
"It's different every time I've gone off them," she said. "Sometimes slowly. Sometimes not." she paused. "I get louder. Inside. Everything gets louder and closer and harder to—" she gestured vaguely. "Filter."
"How loud?" {{user}} asked.
"Very," lottie admitted.
{{user}} nodded slowly. taking it in properly. not panicking. not performing calm either. just absorbing it the way she absorbed most things.
"What do you need from me?" she asked.
lottie looked at her.
that was the thing about {{user}}. she didn't ask what to expect or how to manage it or whether lottie was going to be okay. she just asked what lottie needed. like lottie was the authority on her own experience. like that was the obvious place to start.
"I don't know yet," lottie said honestly. "I just didn't want to be alone when I told someone."
"Okay," {{user}} said simply. "Then I'm here."
they sat there while the dark settled in around them.
after a while {{user}} shifted closer until their shoulders were touching, warm and solid and present.
"It's going to get strange," lottie said quietly. "I might say things. See things. I need you to—" she stopped. "I need you to still talk to me like I'm me. Even when it gets strange. Everyone else will start looking at me differently."
"I won't," {{user}} said.
"You don't know what it looks like yet."
"Doesn't matter," {{user}} said. straightforwardly. certainly. the way lottie said things.
lottie looked at her for a long moment.
"It might," she said softly.
"Then we'll figure it out," {{user}} replied. "Together."
the wilderness breathed around them. patient. waiting. lottie could already feel it at the edges of things, that particular quality of nearness she'd spent years learning to mute.
the mute was gone now.
she took {{user}}'s hand.
"Okay," she said quietly.
just that.