The thought came to Annalise quietly, slipping into her mind the way doubt always did—uninvited, unwelcome, but persistent.
What if I can't stay?
She tried to ignore it as she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling of the inn, listening to the faint hum of the heater and the wind brushing snow against the window. But the question clung to her, wrapping itself around her ribs, tightening every time she let her mind wander too far into the future.
Staying meant roots.
Staying meant expectations.
Staying meant facing every version of herself she had once run from.
And leaving—leaving was familiar.
The next morning arrived pale and cold, the sky heavy with low-hanging clouds. Annalise dressed slowly, mechanically, pulling on her sweater, her coat, her boots. She caught her reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back at her. Not because she looked different—but because she felt different.
More fragile.
More hopeful.
More afraid.
She stepped outside, letting the cold bite into her cheeks as if grounding herself. The town moved at its usual gentle pace. People waved as they passed. Someone called her name from across the street. She responded automatically, smiling, nodding, playing the role of the woman who had come home.
But inside, something pulled at her. Hard.
Liam felt it too.
He stood behind the counter at the hardware store, half-listening to Ethan ramble about an upcoming renovation job while his eyes drifted toward the frosted window. Every instinct in him was on edge, the way it always got when something important felt unstable.
"She's thinking about leaving again," he said suddenly.
Ethan paused. "Who?"
"Annalise."
Ethan sighed, leaning against the counter. "Man… you don't know that."
"I do," Liam replied quietly. "I can feel it."
"That's not proof."
"It's history."
Ethan studied him for a moment. "You gonna talk to her?"
"I don't want to push," Liam said. "If she feels cornered, she'll bolt."
"And if you don't?" Ethan countered. "She might leave anyway."
That settled heavily in Liam's chest.
Annalise spent the afternoon at the library, flipping through old town newsletters and photo albums she hadn't expected to find. She laughed softly at familiar faces frozen in time—school plays, winter festivals, candid shots of people who had once felt like the entire world.
And then she saw them.
A photograph of her and Liam at sixteen, standing too close, smiling like the future was something guaranteed. His arm slung casually around her shoulders. Her head tilted toward him, eyes bright with something she hadn't yet learned to guard.
Her breath caught.
"That was taken the winter before you left," Mrs. Harland said gently, appearing beside her. "The town talked about it for years, you know."
Annalise swallowed. "About the photo?"
"About you," the woman corrected. "And him."
Heat crept up Annalise's neck. "People still do that?"
"In small towns," Mrs. Harland said kindly, "some stories never really end. They just wait."
That was the problem, Annalise thought. Everyone else seemed to believe this story had a natural conclusion.
She wasn't sure she did.
That evening, Liam found her standing near the frozen creek, staring at the ice like it might crack open and offer answers.
"You okay?" he asked, approaching slowly.
She nodded, then shook her head. "I don't know."
He joined her, hands shoved into his coat pockets. "That's an honest answer."
She exhaled. "This town feels… heavy. Not in a bad way. Just… full."
"Full of what?"
"Expectations," she admitted. "Memories. People who think they know what my life should look like."
He said nothing, letting her speak.
"And I'm scared," she continued. "Because part of me wants to stay. And another part is screaming that staying means getting stuck."
Liam's jaw tightened slightly. "Do you think I'm what would keep you stuck?"
The question was quiet, but it landed hard.
"No," she said quickly. "No, Liam. You're not the problem. You're just… the reason it feels real."
That softened him, even as it unsettled him.
"I don't need promises," he said after a moment. "I just need honesty. If you're planning to leave—tell me. Don't disappear again."
Her eyes stung. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Then don't lie to yourself," he replied gently.
That night, Annalise packed and unpacked her suitcase three times.
She folded clothes neatly, then unfolded them. She sat on the bed, staring at the open bag like it might decide for her.
Her phone buzzed.
Mara:
You okay?
Annalise:
I don't know if I belong here anymore.
The reply came quickly.
Mara:
Belonging isn't about certainty. It's about choosing.
Annalise stared at the screen long after the message faded.
Choosing meant responsibility.
Choosing meant staying even when it was uncomfortable.
Choosing meant risk.
Liam stood on his porch later that night, snow falling quietly around him, wondering how something so beautiful could feel so precarious.
He wanted to fight for her.
He wanted to give her space.
He wanted to protect his heart.
And he had no idea which of those would cost him less.
Across town, Annalise lay awake, staring into the dark, knowing one thing with painful clarity:
This wasn't just about whether she stayed in the town.
It was about whether she stayed in love.
And for the first time since coming home, the pull between staying and leaving felt strong enough to tear her in two.