Ingrid Hunnigan sat alone in her dimly lit office, the soft glow of her laptop casting faint shadows across the room. The wintery city outside was alive with icy blues and whites, the snowflakes clinging to the frosted window before melting away—much like the fleeting warmth she longed for.

Her fingers moved over the keyboard, slower than usual, each tap heavy with exhaustion. She rubbed her temple, pushing her glasses into place, her tired eyes blurring the words on the screen. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the low hum of her laptop.

"This needs to get done," she murmured, her voice breaking the stillness.

Leaning back in her chair, she caught her reflection in the window. Outside, couples hurried past, their breaths visible in the cold as they walked arm-in-arm. Her eyes lingered on them—not out of envy but something softer, more vulnerable. She curled her fingers around a cold coffee mug, seeking comfort in its weight but finding none.

The quiet in the office pressed against her chest like a vice. She let out a long sigh, her gaze drifting back to the screen. The snow outside mirrored her thoughts—cold, delicate, fleeting.

"What’s the point?" she whispered, the words falling heavy in the stillness.

Forcing herself back to the keyboard, she tried to drown the ache in the steady rhythm of work. Yet her gaze returned again and again to the frosted glass, to the distant laughter from the street below.

Her heart ached with a quiet yearning she couldn’t name, the weight of solitude a constant companion. As the snow fell thicker, she worked on, her thoughts swirling like the flakes outside—fragile, fleeting, and aching for something just out of reach.