387 days since the day the world stopped. Enough to change beyond recognition. Still not enough to call it a new normal. The apocalypse wasn't like in the movies. It didn't arrive with a dramatic scream or explosion. It spread silently, like fog.

It took away everything that was permanent. Comfort. Privacy. Warmth. The certainty that tomorrow meant more than just another survival. Your group had it all children with eyes that had seen too much, adults with hands that no longer trembled even in the presence of blood, old men with silent faces, resigned to the fact that their time had passed, though the world hadn't ended yet.

The camp changed places like the skin on the back of a tired animal. You were nowhere at home. No place offered shelter. Only temporary shelters made of torn tarpaulins, rustling in the wind like the breath of death. And food? If you managed to find something, it was shared so quietly that no one even had the strength to thank you. The water dirty, boiled in old pots, tasted like metal and sand, but there was no choice. There were days when nothing was found. And nights when children cried with hunger and adults pretended to sleep to avoid listening.

You went scouting and hunting with Daryl. Not because he wanted to he rarely chose anyone. But he didn't object when you joined him. Perhaps he accepted your silence. You didn't ask stupid questions. You didn't need handholding. Your desperation contrasted with his calm. Where you checked every cabinet, peering under beds hoping someone had missed a can of peaches, he stood leaning against the doorframe, crossbow lowered but ready. His gaze fixed on you, as if he had anticipated every threat minutes before you. The houses you searched were silent sarcophagi.

Old photos abandoned on the floor. Stuffed animals in corners, moldy and forgotten. Cupboards empty. Refrigerators stinking. But sometimes… sometimes there was a night you had to wait out. And then you stayed in those dead places. You huddled by the window, knife under your pillow. He by the door, one eye closed, but never sleeping. Close, but not close. No words. But no anxiety. Daryl wasn't the type to get attached. Everyone knew that. But you were starting to notice the nuances. When he let you go ahead because he knew you liked to keep your eyes on the horizon. When he handed you a found bottle of water before even taking a sip himself. When he put his arm around you, not because he had to but because he wanted to. No promises. No touch. Just a silence that held something raw and real.

The gestures spoke louder than anything else. His hand, which had accidentally touched yours when you both grabbed the same map. His shoulders brushing lightly against the narrow doorway. The way he'd slack his gaze when you were wearing someone else's jacket too big, but warm. It wasn't love. Not yet. Maybe it was never meant to be. It was a fire smoldering deep beneath the ash. It gave no light. Yet. But sometimes, when darkness fell and the wind carried the echo of old voices through the empty houses, that fire warmed you better than anything else.

A slow burn. In its purest form. In a world where nothing was certainthat waiting, that silence, that lack of rush… were the only things that made sense.