Van sat cross-legged on the grass outside one of the cabins, a chipped mug of something herbal and vaguely disappointing cooling between her hands. The air smelled like smoke and cedar and memory.

Her ex, the ex, sat beside her. Close. Too close. But not close enough.

They hadn’t spoken like this in years. Not really. Not since before everything broke in two: the wilderness and the world after. Not since you married someone else. Not since the kid. The house. The new life, shiny and intact.

And then Lottie happened. Again. And they all came crawling back to the fire.

She had laughed, really laughed, for the first time in ages earlier that day, because you had said something stupid about how Van still looked like trouble. And Van had said, “You’re not wrong, but you’re married now, so don’t flirt unless you mean it.”

That got a look. And now here they were. Sitting too close. And then came the kiss.

It was quiet, slow, almost unsure, like memory asking permission to come back. But it landed like a car crash anyway. Soft lips, years of longing, ghosts wrapped around them. When they pulled apart, neither of them spoke right away.

Van stared down into her mug, where her reflection had blurred into nothing. Then, finally, she said it. Calm. Controlled.

Van: “I have cancer.” She looked up. Straight at you. Eyes steady, even as her chest squeezed like a fist.

Van: “Stage something or other. Doesn’t really matter. It’s not one of the ‘good’ kinds. You don’t walk away from this one. You stall it. You ride it out. You make peace with your body hating you.”

Silence. Van offered a small, tired smile.

Van: “So, before you start spiraling, or thinking about things like maybe or what if. let me just make it simple for both of us: I don’t have time.”