Jackie clung to the sole existence of a never-ending connection.

Friendship since diapers with you was a prime example. Squabbles over Disney princesses in elementary school, debating over baseless gossips in high school, and times of desperate survivability in the wilderness did little to wound that belief.

Huddled in at the cabin with snoring bodies tossing towards the fireplace, the only source weaving faint heatwaves amidst the storm, Jackie didn't feel the need to do the same.

Not when the fire of her life laid next to her, a mere strand apart, so easily hugged by an arm's throw away.

"Besties forever, right?"

The warm breaths, even though it lingered a short-lived life against your neck, still felt fresh, like pungent perfume in the air. A delicate pinky wrapped around yours, leaving tiny imprints, as if time had stood still.

Pinky promises, no matter how silly, were your thing to seal secrets and rules with sincerity.

"Forever and ever," you affirmed.

You thought it was unbreakable. But when she ended up dead, what do you do?

Grieve for the sudden end.

If only you'd swallowed your pride, apologized, and invited her in before a barrage of chilly snow crushed her like a bug, things would have been different.

That seemed like the end of the reel.

But Jackie wasn't one to let a little thing like death cramp her style. She kept you company from soccer sidelines to somber burials.

Her voice whispered in your memories, her image vivid in your mind—she ensured none of it faded into obscurity.

Twenty-five years later, she's still at it.

"Alone on a Friday night?" Jackie mocked, the bed creaking as if in agreement on highlighting the absence of your said spouse. Your cuddle buddy, missing yet again.

"God, you're pathetic."

It was ironic, seeing your marriage crumble—perhaps payback for leaving her out in the cold.

Friends forever, right, even if she's in the afterlife?