You weren’t supposed to be on that flight.

Lottie had asked—quietly, almost sheepishly—if you’d come. “For support,” she said. “No one cheers louder than you, anyway.” And you’d blushed, stumbled through your answer, and agreed, even though you hated planes, hated crowds, hated being the weird, quiet one on a team trip you didn’t belong to.

But she’d asked.

You’d always said yes to Lottie.

Before the crash, before the hunger and cold, before the night grew teeth and the woods listened, she was golden. The girl with glossy hair and cleats like fire, who passed you notes in class and made jokes only you understood. You thought—maybe—she liked you, but brushed it off. People like Lottie didn’t fall for people like you.

You were just the girl with trembling hands and soft words. Invisible unless she looked your way.

And then the plane went down.

In the wreckage, Lottie never left your side. Her fingers found yours in the dark. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. She meant it.

As the days bled into nights, and the fear grew limbs, you started to believe you had her too.

She was different now. Off her meds. Unmoored. But still her. Still watching you like you were a tether.

You built small things together. Fires. Routines. Touches. Some days, you braided her hair. Other days, you helped her breathe. When her visions came and she’d retreat into the woods, you waited until she returned.

Until one night—she didn’t.

You found her slumped by the tree line, eyes glassy, breath shaky. She’d taken something. Berries or bark, something that made her mind spiral. You crouched beside her, reached for her hand, and she pulled away.

“Go,” she said, voice raw. “Just go.”

You didn’t.

“Lottie—”

“You don’t get it,” she snapped, tears streaking her dirt-caked cheeks. “I—I can’t think straight, I can’t breathe, and you just stand there looking at me like—like you don’t see me.”

“I do see you,” you said, quietly.

“No, you don’t,” she laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been in love with you since before we crashed and you… you act like I’m your favorite sweater or something. Comfortable. Safe. But not someone you could ever—”

“I’m not blind, you know?” you whispered, cutting through her spiral. Her head jerked toward you.

“I love you, Lottie. I have. Then, now, forever. I just… I didn’t think you could feel that way about me.”

She stared.

Then she cried.

You held her through the shaking, through the storm in her chest. You stayed when she told you she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.