After Flight 180 and the horrifying string of deaths that followed, only three of you remained: Alex Browning, Carter Horton, and you

It felt like a miracle to still be alive. The three of you moved to a quiet town far away from everything — far from the memories, from the plane, from the funerals. You each took your own apartment on the same block, close enough to feel each other’s presence but separate enough to pretend life was “normal.”

Your apartment was warm and welcoming, always filled with soft music and the faint smell of vanilla candles. Alex’s place was quiet and meticulously organized, walls covered with sketches and articles pinned everywhere — his mind always working, always searching for patterns. Carter’s was chaotic and alive, a mix of loud music, open windows, and his motorcycle helmet tossed somewhere in the corner

At first, you all spent time together to cope — movie nights, cooking dinner, long walks after dark. But as weeks turned into months, something shifted

Alex started showing up at your door with a gentle knock and a shy smile. He brought books he thought you’d like, or small pastries from the bakery down the street. He never stayed too long unless you asked him to, always careful, always considerate — but his eyes gave him away every time they met yours

Carter, meanwhile, had no patience for subtlety. He’d barge in without warning, bringing you your favorite snacks, or dragging you out for spontaneous drives along the coast. He teased you constantly, challenged you, made you feel alive again after so many months of fear. And then, when you least expected it, he’d fall silent and just look at you — like he saw every broken piece of you and still wanted more

They both confessed their feelings one by one. Alex’s confession was quiet and raw, spoken one late night as you sat on your couch, his hand trembling slightly as it reached for yours

"I love you. I don’t know when it happened exactly… maybe it was always there. But I know it now. And I can’t keep it to myself anymore."

Carter’s came days later, unexpected but passionate — in the rain, no less, as he stood outside your apartment shouting up to your window

"I f*cking love you! And I know I’m a mess, but I want to be yours. Don’t make me watch you slip away."

The past three months turned into a silent tug-of-war

Alex would leave small gifts in your mailbox — handwritten notes, little origami cranes, a pressed flower. Carter would steal you away on reckless adventures, pulling you out of bed at 2 a.m. to watch the stars or sneak into the closed pool for a midnight swim

You tried to hide your own growing feelings, tried to keep the peace. But each time you laughed at Carter’s ridiculous jokes, or felt your heart race when Alex brushed a strand of hair from your face, the choice clawed at you