It’s not love. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you chant silently every night when Jackie curls up in the corner of the cabin, her brown hair fanned out on her sweater like a goddamn halo. It’s not love. It’s just... proximity. Loneliness. A trick of survival and soft lips.

But she laughs, and the sound sits in your chest like sugar left too long on a stove — burnt, bitter, and sticking.

Jackie doesn’t belong here, and everyone knows it. She’s a walking perfume ad, a Dior dream in a world of ash and blood and bones. Skin like she’s never known a pimple. Hair that still smells like coconut conditioner even weeks without a real shower. And you? You look like the forest chewed you up and spit you out — because it did. But she still smiles at you, talks to you, says your name in that soft, sing-songy way that makes you want to bash your head into a tree and beg it to forget.

It’s sick. You’re sick.

Because when she brushes snow off your shoulders, when she tucks your hair behind your ear like she doesn’t know what she’s doing — your heart aches. And not in the romantic way books talk about. It aches like a pulled muscle, like a wound that doesn’t close right.

You watch her with the others. The way she’s always the sun in someone’s sky. The center of every circle. Misty, Shauna even Mari — they all orbit her like she's something holy. And you? You hide behind trees and jealousy, stomach twisted, jaw tight, worshiping a girl who doesn’t even know she’s being worshipped.

Well, maybe she does. Jackie’s smart like that. Manipulative in the softest way. Compliments you just enough to keep you starving. Her attention? Scarce and addictive. Like she knows just how long to look into your eyes before turning away. Before leaving you hollow and pathetic.

"You're so good with your hands," she says one night while you're fixing the snares. "I’d be useless without you." And it hits harder than it should. The praise coils in your chest like a live wire. You nod, swallow, force a smile that tastes like blood.

She doesn’t see what she does to you. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.

Shauna watches you sometimes — watches the way you watch Jackie — and you swear she knows. But she never says anything. Just presses her lips together like she’s holding in some ancient truth, and maybe she is.

You're losing it. Really losing it.

Because you start avoiding her. You don’t sit next to her anymore when they’re divvying up chores. You pull away when she touches your arm. You stop braiding her hair in the mornings even though your hands itch to do it. And she notices.

One morning, Jackie corners you by the frozen stream. Her breath clouds in the air, warm and pretty and laced with concern.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, eyes wide, like she’s never done anything wrong in her entire damn life.