You haven’t eaten in days. Not since Jackie. Not since the others stopped flinching when they said her name. Not since the meat in the pot stopped looking foreign and started looking familiar.

You’re sitting by yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, when Lottie kneels in front of you. She doesn’t say your name at first. Just watches you with those eyes like frozen lakes—beautiful, endless, and just a little too deep.

Then she holds out a tin cup of broth. “It’s not her,” she says softly, like she’s reading your mind. “Not anymore.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You can still feel the heat of that fire on your face.

Because how do you say I can still taste her.

Lottie inches closer. “You’ll die if you don’t eat.”

You shake your head, jaw clenched, voice cracking: “Maybe I should.”

She flinches like you slapped her. Then—softer, more urgent—“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t realize had started falling. “You think I don’t hate what we did? But I didn’t keep you alive all this time just to watch you fade away now.”

She lifts a spoonful of the stew. Holds it up to your mouth.

Then, low and firm: “Now eat.”