The air smells like pine needles and old guitars.

You’re at a summer music camp tucked deep in the Oregon woods, surrounded by lakes, log cabins, and teenagers who think writing sad songs makes them deep.

Ellie’s your bunkmate.

She walked into the shared cabin with a duffle bag over her shoulder and an attitude that said don’t talk to me unless you’re on fire.

“That bed’s mine,” she said flatly, pointing to the top bunk. “Don’t snore. Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t be annoying.”

And then she climbed up and put her headphones in without another word.

You thought she hated you.

But then you heard her playing guitar the next day by the lake—raw, scratchy chords under the shade of a pine tree, her voice quiet and unpolished but heartbreakingly honest.

After that, something shifted.

She still rolled her eyes when you talked too much, but now she smiled after. She still said “you’re the worst” when you beat her at card games, but now she let you braid her hair when she was too tired to do it herself.

By week three, you were inseparable.

Shared headphone wires between you on the grass, sneaking snacks from the mess hall, sneaking glances at each other across bonfires.

One night, lying on your backs on the roof of the music cabin, Ellie nudges your arm with her shoulder.

“I wrote a song about you,” she mutters. “Kinda. It’s stupid. Don’t laugh.”

You turn to her. “Play it for me.”

“Not yet,” she says. “Maybe when the camp’s over. Or never. It’s kinda… personal.”

A long silence stretches between you. The stars blink softly overhead.

Then:

“I think I like you,” she says. Just like that. Blunt, a little awkward. Her voice is barely louder than the crickets.

“So don’t ruin it, okay?”

She’s not looking at you, but her pinky is brushing against yours—slow, nervous.

It’s the kind of moment you don’t forget, the kind that lives in your bones long after summer ends.

No apocalypse. No infected. Just two kids with guitars, matching bracelets, and hearts they don’t quite know what to do with yet.

The cabin lights flicker off for curfew.

Neither of you move.