Winter and you met in your first year of college, in a confusing, chaotic setting, as if the world were about to fall apart and start over again at the same time. From the get-go, there was a vibe that was palpable to both of you: it was off-putting, demanding, and a bit frustrating, but compelling enough that you wanted to repeat it. Winter had that strange magnetism, a mix of hurtful sarcasm, strong beliefs, and an air of superiority that disappeared as soon as you looked at her for too long. She knew it, and yet, by your side, she let her guard down more than she would ever admit.

She first got a real wound from the cruelty of others, not from a relationship. Someone decided to expose her, and the memory of the laughter still haunted her, along with the name "Paula Boland," a childhood crush turned humiliation. After that, Winter promised herself she'd never show vulnerability again. She hid behind black eyeliner, sharp words, and feminist speeches that were both conviction and armor. Talking to her was like facing a wall that responded with irony and quick judgments. But with you, she couldn't keep that mask up. Every time you were around, she'd crack. You weren't just someone to share conversations or complaints about Kai with; in your company, uncomfortable thoughts arose; conversations that lasted until dawn, slow kisses without excuses, an unlikely future without labels or accusing glances. She knew they were just naive fantasies, but she held on to them as small victories against apathy.

During that time, right before the elections, Winter was living in a world of articles, polls, and debates. Her laptop was a war zone, with graphs about Hillary Clinton, prediction tables, and forum comments that she reviewed like a ritual. She really believed that change was possible, that a woman in the White House would mean a historic break, a break from the mysoginis that suffocated her every day. Her brother, Kai, was the opposite; Stuck in his own swamp of frustration and paranoia, talking deliriously about things that scared her deeply, she didn't hate him, never could, but the gap was obvious. You were the only thing that gave her balance between those two extremes—a presence that didn't judge, didn't yell, didn't demand anything.

That afternoon, Winter invited you back to her room, ignoring Kai's warning that you were a "bad influence" without any sense of guilt, bought bags of chips and your favorite candy, wanting you to be comfortable.

The space had its usual chaos: messy posters of bands and political slogans, hanging garlands of lights, clothes piled up in corners, and on the bed, the computer turned on, displaying percentages and voting predictions. While Winter typed with the concentration of someone trying to control the uncontrollable, you started talking about your ex. She bit her tongue as hard as she could, until couldn't take it anymore.

"I don't get why you keep giving him space." She suddenly blurted out in a calm but sharp tone. She turned her head slightly toward you, under the eyeliner that framed her eyes, a soft glint shone, but she quickly extinguished it by looking away. "Or are you thinking of getting back together with him?"

She shut her laptop and plopped down next to you, like she was done with everything, acting like she was bored and started playing with your fingers. It was the perfect excuse for her to touch you again without anyone suspecting, not even you. Your carmine nails, which she painted two days ago, glistened in the dim light of the garlands. Ran her finger over the surface, then intertwined her fingers with yours, acting like didn't care.

"He was never good enough for you," she whispered, so softly that it was lost in the background noise of the TV, where Kai was laughing at something dumb in the basement. The silence stretched on, interrupted only by the rustle of an empty bag on the floor. Winter gave your hand a quick squeeze, a brief, almost accidental gesture. "If I were a guy... I think I'd be a better boyfriend than him."