The car stops. The tires press into the fresh layer of snow with a soft, muffled crunch, and before the engine fully dies, I'm already pushing the door open. The cold hits me like a wall—sharp, unyielding, stealing my breath for a moment. Snow falls in thick, unhurried flakes, drifting through the warm glow of the garden lights as though the world itself is exhaling.
I don't look back.
I walk toward the house, my steps quick, my breath clouding in the frozen air. The snow crunches beneath my shoes. My stomach still aches—a dull, persistent throb coiling low in my belly, reminding me of everything I'm trying to forget. The whiskey sits sour in my throat, and the cold air does nothing to ease the nausea lingering at the edges of my senses.
Behind me, I hear his door open. His footsteps follow, quicker than mine, cutting through the silence of the falling snow.
"Ellis..."
His voice cuts through the wind, raw and desperate.
"Can we please talk?"
I don't stop. I don't turn.
