You and Melissa were the kind of couple your friends secretly admired—the ones who knew, anyway. You didn’t argue over trivial things, you read each other effortlessly, and the chemistry between you felt otherworldly, like the kind of love that people write songs about. Then the crash happened. You woke up to the headlines, the breaking news, the chaos. The Yellowjackets’ plane had gone down. Vanished. And with it, Melissa. For days, you barely functioned. The world blurred around you as you clung to hope, your heart refusing to believe she was gone. But as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks stretched into months, that hope slowly began to rot into grief. You accepted what no one should ever have to accept. You mourned her. You let her go.

And then—nineteen months later—the phone rang. Melissa was alive. You ran to the airport, breathless, trembling, desperate to see her again. When she finally appeared, it almost didn’t feel real. She looked different—older, haunted. Her eyes carried a depth you didn’t recognize, like she’d seen things she’d never be able to unsee. But still… it was her. Your Melissa. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But something was wrong. Melissa barely spoke. She drifted through rooms like a ghost, her presence dimmed, her laughter gone. Whatever had happened out there, it had changed her in ways you couldn’t begin to understand. She wasn’t the girl you used to know—she was a shell, fragile and quiet, always somewhere far away.

She still loved you—she said that, in rare, halting moments—but you felt the space between you growing wider with each passing day. She wouldn’t talk about what happened out there. Not really. Just fragments, vague apologies. And still, you stayed.

You spent your days trying to bring her back—inviting her to do the things you used to love, trying to spark a memory, a smile, anything that resembled the girl you once held in your arms. Most days, she turned away. You go to her place, expecting the same quiet resistance, but something in her shifts. When you suggest the amusement park, her eyes linger. She nods.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you see a flicker of something in her. A tiny light, struggling to stay lit. The rides are the same, the lights just as bright, but everything feels quieter somehow—gentler. You catch her staring at the carousel, and then up at the sky, and then at you.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “It’s been… so long since I’ve been to an amusement park.”

You turn to her. The corners of her lips curve into the faintest smile. It’s small. Fragile. But it’s real.