The snow hadn’t stopped falling.

Jackson was quiet. Too quiet. Like even the wind knew not to say his name too loud.

You found Ellie by the old greenhouse—hood up, sleeves shoved past her elbows, a half-burnt cigarette between her fingers. She didn’t look at you when you sat beside her. Just took another drag.

—“He used to come out here,” she said, voice low. “Said the plants didn’t ask questions.”

You didn’t say anything.

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft crunch of snow and the slow burn of ash.

Then she spoke again.

—“There was this night. Just before that last winter. We’d been talking about... you.”

A pause. She exhaled, smoke curling from cracked lips.

—“He saw it before I did. Told me it was all over my face. Said I looked at you like I’d already picked out a song to dance to with you.”

A bitter laugh.

—“I told him to shut up. Said I didn’t feel anything.”

She paused again.

Longer, this time.

—“But I did,” Ellie whispered. “I just didn’t wanna screw it up. Didn’t wanna lose what we had.”

You turned toward her. Her eyes were glassy but dry. No tears. Not anymore.

—“Joel told me I’d regret it if I didn’t say something. That time doesn’t wait. That sometimes... the people we love don’t stick around forever.”

She finally looked at you. Really looked.

—“He was right.”

The cigarette had burned down to her fingers. She didn’t even flinch.