Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Melissa King and Frank Langdon had always been the best of friends. Anyone in Lexington would tell you the same without hesitation. They had grown up practically attached at the hip, spending every second they could together.

Their families had been intertwined long before they were born. Their fathers met at UVA and after graduating, both chose to stay in Virginia. It was there they met their wives, settled down, and built their families.

Francis Langdon married Stephanie Brooks, and together they had three children—the youngest being Frank. 

David King married Lisa Bell, and a few years after Frank was born, they finally welcomed twin girls, Rebecca and Melissa.

One of Mel’s earliest memories is walking through the back door after a long afternoon spent playing in the sun with Becca and Frank, only to find her father collapsed on the kitchen tile—one hand clutching his chest, the other fallen limp at his side, a dark, sticky pool of blood spreading beneath his head.

She remembers her mother running inside at the sound of her scream, Frank and his mom following close behind. Steph moved immediately, dropping to her knees beside him, her hands searching for a pulse, her voice already tight with urgency as she called for help. 

When Mel’s mother let out a broken, unrecognizable sound, Steph reached for her with one hand, trying to steady her even as everything else unraveled.

“Frankie,” she said, sharp and certain, “take the girls to our house. Now.”

Frank grabbed Mel’s hand first, pulling her back toward the door before she could keep looking. “Come on,” he said quickly, his voice uneven but trying to be steady. “We have to go.”

Becca hadn’t followed them inside. She was still out in the yard, hovering at the edge of it all, far enough away from the noise and movement.

He didn’t stop until they were outside again, until the air felt different, less heavy. Then he turned, still holding tight to Mel, and called out to Becca—gentler this time, cause he knew he had to be. “Becca,” he said, “We’re going to my house, okay? You can come with us.”

Mel had started humming under her breath, quiet and repetitive.

Frank squeezed her hand a little tighter when he heard it. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, even though it clearly wasn’t. “It’ll be okay.”

He didn’t let go of her hand the entire walk to his house.

She remembers the church just as clearly. Sitting in the front pew, her mother crying quietly to her right, and Frank to her left, their small hands tightly intertwined. They were so young—just seven and ten—and already learning what it meant to lose something they had never expected to live without.

That afternoon, they slipped away from the repast and the trays of funeral potatoes, unnoticed in the quiet blur of southern condolences and hushed voices. They quickly made their way to the woods behind Mr. Madison’s field, to the fallen tree they had claimed as their own, a place that felt separate from everything else—untouched, unchanged.

They sat side by side on the rough bark, their patent leather shoes dangling and reflecting the sun, the world quieter out there than it had been all day. Mel hadn’t stopped picking at the fraying edge of her sleeve, her eyes fixed somewhere far past the trees. 

Frank didn’t know what to say, not really. He was only ten after all. None of it made sense, not in a way he could explain that made it hurt any less. So instead, he did what he always did when Mel was upset. He reached over and took her hand, holding it tight like he had in the church and on the walk to his house.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said finally, the words small but certain in the stillness. “I promise. I’ll always be here.” 

It was the kind of promise only a child could make—simple, absolute, and too big for the world they lived in—but he meant it with everything he had. 

And Mel, with nothing else steady to hold onto, believed him.

Before Mel’s dad died, they had already spent most of their summer together—but afterward, it became every single day. They camped out in each other’s backyards, the stars stretched wide above them, their stomachs full of roasted marshmallows and hot dogs. They spent long, slow days walking back and forth between the park and the corner store, and even longer afternoons tucked away in the treehouse Frank’s oldest brother had built. When school started again, it was harder not being in the same grade, but they still walked to and from school together every day, trailing a few steps behind Becca as she moved ahead of them.

Once Mel finally made it to middle school, Frank was already in eighth grade. They were mostly just excited to be able to walk home together again. During the school day, they were split between buildings, but afternoons were theirs again in a way they hadn’t been in years.

Mel still showed up to everything. She sat through his modified football games, legs swinging from the bleachers, cheering when everyone else did, even if she didn’t always know why. Afterward, he’d find her without really looking, like he always knew where she’d be.

Most days ended the same way. Bikes dropped in the grass at Taylor Pond, the slow stretch of afternoon slipping by while they fished or skipped rocks across the water. Frank baited her hook without asking, and when she caught something, he handled it, quick and easy.

When they weren’t outside, they were usually at one of their kitchen tables, homework spread out between them. Frank had already been through most of it, so he’d walk her through whatever she got stuck on, patient in a way he never was with anyone else. Half the time they ended up getting distracted anyway, talking shit about her teachers in low voices, laughing over things that probably weren’t that funny to anyone else.

And when they didn’t feel like being inside at all, they ended up in the same place they always did—out behind Mr. Madison’s field, sitting on their tree. They’d share a pair of headphones, shoulders brushing every so often without either of them moving away. They never felt the need to.

By the time Mel was a freshman and Frank a junior, they had grown closer than anyone thought they could. Not because it didn’t make sense, but because no one really believed there was more closeness to be had. 

They had always been that—constant, inseparable—and somehow, it had only deepened.

Frank would poke his head into Mel’s study halls, and without a word she’d already be gathering her things, the routine so familiar it didn’t need explaining. They’d slip out to his truck and drive down to the edge of the Maury River, staying just far enough away to feel like they were somewhere else entirely. 

At school, Mel and Becca sat with Frank and the football team at lunch. No one questioned it. Most of the team closer to Frank’s age took to the twins—they didn’t have to, but Frank cared about them, and that was reason enough.

Mel still went to every game. Now that she actually understood what was happening on the field, she was the loudest voice in the stands. And when Frank got taken down in a pileup and didn’t get back up right away, she didn’t hesitate—vaulting the railing and running straight onto the field, dropping to her knees beside him.

He was fine. Of course he was. Flat on his back, laughing his ass off like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

That earned him a solid punch to the gut.

When Frank walked through the school doors after his SATs, Mel was already there, waiting. She threw her arms around him before he could even say anything, and he just grinned into her shoulder, knowing he’d done well. 

They had spent months studying together—late nights at the kitchen table, notes spread everywhere, Mel quizzing him until he got it right.

They had plans.

Both of them wanted to be doctors. Frank talked about it like it was already decided, like it was just a matter of getting there, and Mel followed right alongside him, already thinking about the same path, the same future. He was aiming for UVA, just like his dad, and Mel would join him a few years later. He wouldn’t be far. Far enough to feel like something new, but close enough that nothing really had to change. And when Mel got there, she’d still be within an hour of home—of her mom, of Becca.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

The email came late one afternoon, sitting in his inbox like it didn’t understand what it was about to do. It was message from a recruiter at Penn State, telling him that they’d seen his film and they were interested.

Really interested.

Frank stared at it longer than he meant to. It should have been exciting. A program like that, an opportunity like that—people didn’t say no to it. But it wasn’t what they had planned.

Instead of answering, he pulled out his phone.

Meet me at the tree in 20? I need to talk to you.

The reply came almost immediately.

I’m already here. Becca had another meltdown. Had to get away for a bit.

Frank didn’t think after that. He just grabbed his bike and took off, cutting across yards and back roads he knew by heart, faster than he probably should have been going. He didn’t slow down until he reached the edge of Mr. Madison’s field. The air at the there hung thick and unmoving, like even the late afternoon heat had settled into something heavier, something that pressed against Frank’s skin as he stepped out of the trees and into the quiet.

Mel was already there, exactly where she always was, her back against the trunk and her legs stretched along the length of the fallen tree, headphones stuck into her ears and a book resting open in her lap like she was trying to disappear into something simpler.

For a second, he just stood there, watching her, the familiar shape of her feeling suddenly distant in a way that didn’t make sense, like something had already started to shift before either of them had agreed to it.

“Hi.” She pulled one earbud free, tilting her head up toward him, her smile soft and easy in a way that made something tighten in his chest.

“Hi,” he said back, the word catching slightly on the way out, like it had to push past everything else he wasn’t saying.

She swung her legs down and patted the space beside her and he sat immediately, their shoulders settling into a closeness that had never required permission.

“What happened?” he asked, his fingers pressing lightly into the rough bark beneath him.

“Becca,” Mel said, her voice quiet, tired in a way that felt older than it should have, her hands folding loosely in her lap. “There’s that father-daughter dance at her respite center. Mom said she’d go with her.” She exhaled softly, her gaze drifting somewhere past him, somewhere far enough away to keep her steady. “She didn’t think it was right,” she added. “Didn’t make sense.”

Frank nodded, the memory of raised voices and sharp edges settling into his chest.

“Got loud,” she said after a moment, like that explained everything it needed to.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, because it did.

The tree had always been where things like that ended up—where noise got left behind, where everything that felt too big could shrink into something manageable.

They sat there for a while, the quiet stretching between them, like it always was when neither of them needed to fill it. Frank leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting out toward the open field where the grass shifted in slow, lazy waves, and for a moment he let himself pretend nothing had changed.

But it had.

It already had.

He could feel it sitting in his pocket, in the weight of his phone, in the words he hadn’t said yet, in the version of everything that no longer fit as neatly as it used to. He didn’t want to leave this. Didn’t want to leave her. But something in him—sharp and insistent—kept pulling anyway.

Mel sighed, letting her head fall against his shoulder, her braid sliding over her own as she looked up through the branches.

“Enough about me,” she said softly. “What did you want to talk about?”

Frank didn’t answer. He just sat there, staring out ahead of him, like if he stayed still enough, quiet enough, the moment might pass without him having to break it open.

“Frank?” Her voice was gentler this time, careful in a way that made it harder to avoid. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that.”

He swallowed, his throat tightening, his hand already moving before he fully decided to let it, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening the email without looking at it. He held it out to her instead.

Mel took it without breaking eye contact at first, her gaze searching his face, trying to read something that didn’t want to be understood. There was too much there—too many expressions layered over each other, none of them sticking out enough to name.

“Read it,” he said quietly.

He watched as she read it. Every shift, every flicker of expression, the way her brows pulled together slightly in confusion, then lifted in surprise, then softened into something brighter, something that almost looked like excitement. And then, it dropped.

“You never mentioned Penn State,” she said finally, her voice careful, balanced, like she was holding something fragile between her words.

“I never even thought about it,” he admitted, his hand dragging briefly over the back of his neck. “But then I got that and… I don’t know. It sounds pretty great.” He hesitated, his voice losing some of its steadiness. “The football program, and—their medical program is great, too.”

“Yeah,” Mel said, softer now, her eyes dropping back to the screen for just a second before she handed the phone back.

“I know we always planned on UVA—”

“That is the plan,” she cut in, too quickly, the words landing sharper than she meant them to.

Frank winced slightly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t do that, Mel. This is really hard for me too.”

She exhaled, shaking her head, her hands tightening together in her lap like she was trying to hold something still. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.” The apology came easy, but the feeling behind it didn’t settle as quickly.

“I just…” Frank started, then stopped, his fingers threading through his hair as frustration built quietly under his skin. “I read it and it felt… right,” he said finally, the word sounding uncertain. “And I’ve been so set on staying here, but I don’t know if I actually want to anymore. My dad’s been—”

He cut himself off. Because when he looked at her, there was already a tear sliding down her cheek.

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, turning toward her fully now, the panic in his chest immediate and sharp. “Don’t cry. Shit, Mel, I’m sorry.” He reached out without thinking, brushing the tear away with his sleeve, his touch gentle like it always was with her.

She shook her head, blinking hard, her breath catching slightly as she tried to steady it. “No, I’m okay,” she said, even though she clearly wasn’t, her voice wavering just enough to give it away. “I’m happy for you. Really.” She swallowed, her gaze dropping back to her hands. “This is… it’s a really good opportunity. I think you should take it.”

“Really?” The word came out softer than he expected, like he didn’t quite believe her.

“Yeah,” she said, reaching over and threading her fingers through his like they always did when things got too heavy. 

They sat in the quiet that followed, the air heavier now, thicker, like everything had shifted slightly to the left. Massive and earth shattering, but only to those who bothered to pay attention. 

Only to them.

“But I keep thinking about…” she started, her voice catching slightly as she forced the words forward. “About that day,” she said. “Here. After my dad’s funeral.” 

Her tears flowed freely now.

“And you promised me,” she went on, quieter now, her voice thinner, more fragile, “that you weren’t going anywhere. That you’d always be here.”

Something in Frank’s chest broke open at that, sharp and immediate. He pulled her into him without hesitation, his arms wrapping around her tight, steady, like he could hold everything together if he just didn’t let go.

“I meant that,” he said into her hair, his voice low, firm, like he needed her to believe it. “I still mean it.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Even if I go,” he added, softer now, the words settling heavier between them, “that doesn’t change.” His grip tightened slightly. “I’ll still be here for you, Mel. Always.”

It wasn’t the same, and they they both knew it.

But neither of them said that part out loud.

Frank let the email sit in his inbox for a week before he finally responded. He didn’t do it alone. He brought his laptop to Mel’s kitchen table, where they had spent months buried in flashcards and half-empty mugs. Mel stood behind him with her arm over the back of his chair, reading over his shoulder while he typed, deleted, and typed again, both of them pretending this was only an email and not the first real step away from everything familiar.  Together, they drafted something short and careful, polite in a way that sounded strange coming from him, a little too formal for two people whose whole lives had been built on not needing to explain themselves.

After that, everything moved too quickly. Calls came in, paperwork appeared, a campus visit was scheduled. Adults started speaking in certain, practical voices that made August feel less like just a month and more like a door already swinging open ready to close him off from Virginia. 

They didn’t talk about it much after that, because talking made it real, and neither of them were ready to give it that much shape.

Senior year started, and everything looked the same.

It just didn’t feel the same.

August was still months away, but it followed them anyway, tucked into the spaces between classes, into the pauses neither of them knew how to fill. So they filled the space instead with anything that kept them close and gave them something easier to look at.

During the week, it was the in-between moments that mattered most. Frank lingered a second too long at her locker, pretending he needed to ask her something, while Mel walked slower than necessary between classes so he had time to catch up. They found reasons to be near each other without saying that was what they were doing. 

Some afternoons, they didn’t go home right away. They drove with no designation, just back roads and long stretches of quiet, windows down, warm air rushing through the cab and pulling loose strands of Mel’s hair across her cheek. 

And then there was the tree.

There always was.

Sometimes it was planned, and sometimes it wasn’t, but the tree remained theirs in a way nothing else did. It held their worst days and their quiet ones, their childhood promises and their almost-confessions, the things they said too quickly and the things they swallowed whole. 

That day, it was just a text from Frank, plain and simple enough to make Mel’s stomach tighten before she even finished reading it.

Meet me at the tree.

Mel didn’t question it—she never did—but something about the message sat wrong, heavy and low in her chest as she made her way to Mr. Madison’s field. 

The grass brushed against her ankles, dry and scratchy from the heat, and the closer she got to the woods, the quieter the whole world seemed to become. By the time she reached the clearing, even the birdsong felt distant, muffled beneath the pounding in her ears.

Then she saw him.

Frank was sitting on the fallen trunk with his elbows braced on his knees, an ice pack pressed against one eye. He didn’t look up right away, and somehow that scared her more than the swelling already blooming beneath the cold plastic. For a second, she just stood there, taking in the stiff line of his shoulders and the way he held himself too carefully, like one wrong movement might split him open.

“Frank?”

“Hey,” He said, and glanced up at her. 

Mel crossed the distance quickly, dropping her bag in the dirt without thinking. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Frank.”

He exhaled, shifting the ice pack just enough for her to see the angry, purple shadow underneath. “My dad just—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening around the rest of it. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

She knew that without him saying it.

Mel stepped closer, her hand lifting before she really thought about it. Her fingers brushed lightly along the edge of his cheek, just below the swelling. Frank went still beneath her hand, his breath catching so quietly she might have missed it if she didn’t already know every version of him.

“You’re gonna bruise,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, voice quieter now.

Neither of them moved.

“I just—” he started, then stopped, dragging one hand through his hair as frustration crawled under his skin. “God.” He let out a sharp breath, bitter and exhausted. “I can’t fucking wait to be as far away from here as possible.”

It came out wrong the second it left his mouth.

Mel’s hand stilled against his face, and a small, unsteady breath slipped out before she could stop it. Frank turned toward her immediately, panic flashing through his expression, sharper than anything his father had left behind. 

“Not—” he said quickly. “Not like that. I didn’t mean you.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“I know,” she said softly. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

“I just mean this place,” he said, quieter now, like lowering his voice could soften the damage. “My house. Him.” He swallowed hard, his throat working around words that suddenly mattered too much.  “I don’t want to leave you. You know that, right? Please tell me you know how hard this is for me, Mel.”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.” And she did. But that wasn’t the part that hurt. Her hand dropped from his face, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she sat beside him on the fallen tree, shoulder brushing his like it always did. 

Summer came faster than either of them expected, slipping in quietly until the days stretched longer. Everything felt sharper now, like time had picked up speed somewhere just out of sight, pulling them along whether they were ready or not. 

They filled it the only way they knew how, leaning into routine and closeness, into anything that made the days feel familiar. Long afternoons turned into slow, glowing evenings while they sat in the bed of his truck, watching the sky shift through colors they could mix from memory.

Errands took twice as long because neither of them moved with any real urgency, both quietly aware that finishing meant getting closer to something neither of them wanted. They found reasons to stay, lingering in parking lots, doorways, and quiet stretches of road where nothing demanded they leave. 

On weekends, they settled into Frank’s living room, the TV casting a soft, flickering light that made the rest of the house feel distant and unimportant. Mel would curl into the corner of the couch, her legs tucked under her, while Frank stretched out at the other end, close enough to feel the steady warmth of her presence. 

The movie would play unnoticed, voices blending into background noise. It felt easy in a way that made everything else harder.

At some point, always, they’d fall asleep there.

But some nights… the quiet wouldn’t last.

Frank would wake to the sound of her breathing changing, too fast, too uneven. Her hands would tighten in the blanket, fingers curling inward as if she were trying to hold onto something slipping away. Her head would shift against the cushion, her brows pulled tight, her body caught somewhere between sleep and panic.

“No—” The word would come out thin and broken, barely there at first before sharpening. “No, no—”

Frank was awake instantly, pushing himself up, his chest tightening as recognition settled in before thought could. “Mel,” he’d say, voice low but urgent, reaching for her without hesitation. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

She’d shake her head faintly, still caught somewhere else entirely, her breath coming too fast, like she couldn’t get enough air.

“Mel, baby, wake up,” he’d murmur, softer now, his hand finding her arm, the other brushing her hair back from her face. “It’s me. You’re okay.”

Sometimes her eyes would open right away, wide and unfocused, panic still clinging to them. Sometimes it took longer, her breathing uneven, her body slow to follow her back. But when she came to, the first thing she always did was look for him, like that part of her hadn’t gotten lost.

And he was always there.

“I’m right here, baby,” he’d tell her, steady in a way he didn’t always feel. “You’re okay.” 

She’d nod, even though she wasn’t, her hands still shaking slightly as he pulled her closer without thinking. Her head would settle against his shoulder, and his hand would move slow and steady along her back, grounding her in his touch. Eventually, her breathing would even out. Eventually, she’d fall asleep again.

He never did.

He’d stay there in the dim light, staring out into the quiet room, something unsettled sitting heavy in his chest. Sleep felt too far away, too risky, like closing his eyes might leave her alone with it again. 

So he didn’t. 

He just stayed, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing, like he could scare the dreams away if he stared long enough.

By the time August rolled around, they still hadn’t really talked about it. They both knew it was coming, but neither of them wanted to say it out loud.

Frank packed everything he needed into the back of his truck, the bed filling piece by piece until there was nothing left to carry. It didn’t feel real when he said goodbye to his family. When his mother hugged him too tightly, or when his father clapped him once on the shoulder like that could stand in for everything he never said, and everything he did. 

It only started to feel real when he climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and heard the engine catch beneath him.

Before he made it anywhere near the interstate, he turned the wheel instead. There was one place he needed to go first.

He pulled into Mel’s driveway, gravel crackling beneath the tires, and shut the engine off before the truck fully settled. He was out almost immediately, heart already beating too hard as he crossed the yard and knocked on the front door. 

Mrs. King opened the door, and her face softened the second she saw him. “Frankie.”

“Hi, Mrs. King,” he said, a little breathless. “Is Mel here?”

She shook her head gently. “No, honey. She left about an hour ago. Said she needed some air.”

Of course she did.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once as something in his chest tightened. “Thank you.”

“Pennsylvania’s lucky to have you,” she added, softer now. “You’re going to do amazing things.”

He huffed out a small laugh, though it barely made it past his throat. “Thanks, Mrs. K.” He stepped forward and hugged her, holding on one second longer than he usually would have. When he pulled back, Becca was half-hidden behind the door, watching him with quiet, careful eyes.“Becs,” he said, his voice softening immediately. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

He opened his arms and waited until she stepped into the hug herself. She held him firmly, without hesitation, and something about that nearly broke him worse than anything else had. “You take care of Mel for me, okay?” he said quietly.

“I will,” Becca answered, like it wasn’t even a question.

A small smile pulled at his mouth. “I love you guys.”

“We love you too, Frankie,” Mrs. King said.

Frank stepped back, turning toward the driveway with his keys already tight in his hand. He didn’t have to wonder where Mel had gone.

There was only one place she’d be.

He drove too fast to Mr. Madison’s field, leaving his truck crooked along the edge before cutting through the woods on foot. Branches caught at his shirt, dry leaves cracked beneath his shoes, and the humid August air clung to his skin as he followed the path they had worn down over years of needing somewhere to go.

And then he saw her.

Mel was sitting on their tree, hair braided over one shoulder, the white floral sundress catching the filtered sunlight until the whole clearing seemed to glow around her. 

For one second she didn’t look entirely real—more memory than flesh and bone—like the woods had already started turning her into something he would spend years trying to hold onto.

Then he got closer. The light shifted, and he could see the red around her eyes, the tear tracks she hadn’t yet wiped away, the way her shoulders sat too tight beneath the soft fabric of her dress. She stood the moment he reached her, and he didn’t hesitate, pulling her into him like his body had been waiting for permission all morning.

She broke immediately. A quiet sound first, small and wounded, then all at once, her hands twisting into the back of his shirt as she buried her face against him. He held her tighter, one hand pressed between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head like he could shield her from the morning. Shield her from himself leaving.

“Did you really think I was gonna just leave without saying goodbye to you?” he murmured into her hair.

“I was hoping if I just stayed away,” she managed between uneven breaths, “it wouldn’t have to happen at all.”

He let out a breath that almost became a laugh, except nothing about it was light. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I thought about that too.”

When they finally let go it was only enough to sit. The fallen tree was warm beneath them, rough bark catching lightly against their palms, familiar enough to feel cruel in the moment. For a while, neither of them said anything, and the silence wasn’t empty at all; it was crowded with everything they had avoided saying for months.

“So this is it,” Mel said eventually, her voice quieter now.

“For now,” he said quickly.

She looked over at him, just for a second. “Five hours, Frank.”

“I’ll come back,” he said. “All the time. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

She let out a small breath, “I think I will.”

He didn’t argue with that.

“I just…” she started, then stopped, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “Everything’s gonna be different.”

“Not everything,” he said.

“Most things,” she corrected softly.

He looked at her then, really looked at her, trying to memorize what panic told him time might steal later. The loose pieces of hair around her face, the damp shine still clinging to her lashes, the small crease between her brows when she was trying too hard not to fall apart, the moles near her eye and on her jaw. His throat tightened around every answer he didn’t have.

“Yeah,” was all he could muster.

He reached into his pocket then, pulling out the old pocket knife he’d carried for years, the metal worn smooth and familiar in his hand. He turned it once between his fingers before leaning down, pressing the blade carefully into the bark of the fallen tree, the dry surface giving just enough to mark. 

Mel watched him, her brows knitting together slightly, curiosity cutting through the heaviness of everything else for just a second. "What are you doing?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Just—” he exhaled, dragging the blade slowly, carving with deliberate pressure. “Thought we should leave something.” He etched his initial first, then paused, glancing at her briefly before adding hers beside it.

Mel let out a quiet, shaky breath, her fingers hovering before brushing lightly over the fresh carving. “You know that’s technically bad for trees, right?” she said, the faintest edge of humor threading through her voice despite everything.

He huffed out something that almost sounded like a laugh. “It’s already dead, Mel. I’m not hurting anything.”

She nodded, her thumb tracing the edge of the letters, following the grooves like she was committing them to memory. “I like it,” she said quietly.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

They talked after that, small things at first, the safer things, circling around the edges of what actually mattered without stepping directly into it. His dorm, his classes, what her year would look like without him there, each topic brushing against the same unspoken truth before pulling away again.

“You’re gonna love it,” she said at one point, brushing at her cheeks like she could erase the evidence. “You’re gonna be so happy there. Everyone’s gonna love you.”

“I don’t care about that,” he said.

“You should,” she insisted, softer now. “You deserve that.”

“I care about this,” he said instead.

Her eyes flicked up to his.

Neither of them looked away.

“You’re never getting rid of me, you know,” he added, trying for something lighter. “I’ll call you. Text you. Probably annoy the shit out of you.”

She smiled then, small but real. “You already do that.”

“Good,” he said. “So nothing changes.”

Something moved across her face, fragile and almost hopeful, like she wanted to believe him badly enough to make it true.

Almost.

They fell quiet again, shoulders brushing, hands resting close enough to touch but not quite there. It would have been easy to reach for her, to close that last inch of space and turn everything into something clearer, something defined. They had done it so often as kids, but as they got older, the feeling of their hands intertwined began to feel less like simple comfort and more like something dangerously tender. The thought sat between them, heavy and electric, neither of them daring to be the one to shift it.

“I just don’t know how this is supposed to work,” she admitted, her voice smaller now than he had ever heard it. “You not being here. You’ve always been here.”

He swallowed hard, looking down at his hands before forcing himself to meet her eyes again. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. He hesitated then, his fingers flexing slightly against the rough bark beside him, before he said it, quieter this time, without trying to dress it up or make it easier. 

“I love you, Mel.”

It wasn’t new. It had been said a hundred different ways, in a hundred different moments, over years that blurred together. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t.

Mel’s breath caught, just slightly. Her eyes stayed on his, something shifting there—an awareness that hadn’t been there before. Like she was hearing the same words, but from a place she hadn’t stood in yet.

“I love you too, Frank,” she said, just as softly.

And it meant what it had always meant—steady, familiar, something they had carried between them for as long as they could remember—but this time it settled a little deeper, quieter, like it had finally found a place it hadn’t reached before.  They just let it exist between them, unchanged on the surface, but carrying something new underneath it neither of them were ready to name. 

By the time the light softened and the shadows stretched long across the field, the day had pulled them with it whether they wanted it to or not. 

“I should go,” Frank said finally.

When they stood, it felt heavier, like crossing into something that couldn’t be undone. He pulled her into him one last time, holding on tighter than before, trying to memorize the way she fit against him. She held on just as tightly, neither rushing, neither willing to be the first to let go.

“Call me when you get there,” she said into his shoulder.

“I will.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

They pulled back slowly, just enough to look at each other, the space between them thinner than it had ever been. There was something there, something that had always been there, something they still didn’t fully understand.

He stepped back first, then turned before he could stop himself.

Mel stayed where she was, her hand resting against the carved initials, her fingers tracing the grooves again and again as she watched him disappear into the trees. The woods settled around her, like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Frank’s first semester at Penn State was, in the simplest terms, good—but not in a way that ever felt easy, or let him settle fully into it without something pulling him in every direction. The campus stretched wide and unfamiliar around him, a constant movement of people and noise and expectations, the air sharper there, cooler and heavier in ways that never quite matched the slow warmth of Virginia. Everything demanded something from him—his time, his energy, his focus—and he gave it, because he had always been the kind of person who did.

Football came first. Early morning lifts left his muscles tight and buzzing, practice drills ran until his lungs burned, and the rhythm of it all settled into his body before it ever made sense in his head. He was a freshman, which meant earning everything twice over—attention, trust, a place on the field—and he carried that quietly, pushing himself harder than anyone had to ask him to. The upperclassmen were good to him, in the way teams often are, loud and easy and quick to pull him into things, but he stayed just outside of it, present without fully stepping in.

Pre-med wasn’t something he treated lightly; it sat heavier than football most times, quieter but more permanent, something that stretched further into his future than anything else. The workload stacked quickly—labs, readings, exams that came faster than he expected—and he met it head-on, even when it meant trading sleep for another hour of studying.

He made friends, of course. It would have been harder not to. The guys on the team pulled him into late-night food runs, into loud parties, and easy conversations that didn’t ask too much of him, and he let himself be there just enough.

But the place he felt most like himself wasn’t on the field or in the classroom.

It was on the phone.

Every chance he got—walking back from practice, sitting on the edge of his bed late at night, leaning against the cold brick outside his dorm building—he called Mel. The sound of her voice cut through everything else, grounding him in a way nothing at school quite managed to. He told her about practice, about classes, about the small, insignificant things that somehow felt important when he said them to her. And she told him about home—about Becca, about her classes, about the tree—and he could picture it all so clearly it almost made the distance feel like something he could ignore.

Sometimes they talked for hours, sometimes they just stayed on the line in silence, neither of them needing to fill it. Every time he hung up, the quiet that followed felt a little sharper than the one before, like something important had been there and then wasn’t. Eventually, he got used to it.

Or at least, he learned how to carry it.

Mel’s junior year without Frank was hard so far, in ways she hadn’t prepared for. The hallways felt wider, the noise sharper without his presence beside her, every passing period stretching longer than it used to. She moved through her days the same way she always had, but the rhythm felt off, like a melody missing its harmony. 

Lunch was the worst of it.

The table where she and Becca used to sit with Frank and the team didn’t belong to them anymore, not without him anchoring it. They still sat there sometimes at the beginning, out of habit more than anything, but the energy had shifted, the space no longer holding them the same way it once had. Some of the younger guys—the ones who had been freshmen when Frank was still there—looked at them differently now, like the absence had given them permission.

“Didn’t he leave you behind pretty quick?” one of them muttered once, just loud enough to be heard, a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. “Guess Penn State was more important than you, huh?”

Mel didn’t respond. She kept her eyes down, her hands steady even as something tight pulled low in her chest, the words settling heavier than she wanted them to. Becca noticed, of course—she always did—but she didn’t react the way people expected, just shifted closer to Mel, their shoulders touching in quiet solidarity. They stopped sitting there after a while.

The walk home changed too. It used to be easy, something automatic, Frank always filling the space with whatever came to mind. Now it was just the two of them, the road stretching longer without conversation to break it up. Most days, she didn’t go straight inside when they’d make it home. She’d watch Becca head inside then wave to her mom through the window.

Her feet carried her somewhere else without needing to think about it, cutting across familiar ground until the noise of everything else fell away. 

The tree waited where it always had, unchanged and steady, the worn trunk still marked with the uneven carving of their initials. She would sit there for hours sometimes, her back against the bark, fingers tracing the grooves absentmindedly, like she could still feel the moment they had been carved if she tried hard enough. It was quieter there. Quieter in a way that didn’t demand anything from her.

When Frank called, she answered every time. She told him everything was great. She said it easily, like it was true, like her days were full and normal and exactly what they were supposed to be. She told him about classes, about Becca, about small things that sounded light enough to carry everything else away with them. She laughed when it felt right, filled in the silences so he didn’t have to, made sure there was nothing in her voice that might make him pause.

Because he sounded happy—tired sometimes, busy always—but happy in a way she had never heard before, something brighter threaded through his voice when he talked about practice or classes or the people he was starting to know. It was what she had wanted for him, what she had told him he deserved.

So she didn’t tell him about lunch, or the walk home or the way the tree felt less like a place they shared and more like something she was holding onto alone. She didn’t tell him any of it.

Because if he was finally somewhere that felt right, she wasn’t going to be the thing that made it feel wrong.

When Frank came home for the holidays, it was wonderful. The cold air in Lexington carried that sharp, clean smell of snow and woodsmoke, and everywhere he went felt smaller than he remembered, but fuller somehow.  

Every day leading up to Christmas blurred together in the best way, filled with things they had done every year without ever needing to plan them. Sledding down the same uneven hill with his siblings, Mel, and Becca, their laughter echoing too loud against the quiet white. Building gingerbread houses in Mel’s kitchen where icing somehow ended up everywhere but holding up cookie walls. They went to the winter carnival downtown, lights strung overhead and music spilling out into the cold, their shoulders brushing as they moved through the crowd like nothing had changed.

On Christmas morning, they woke up in separate houses, but it didn’t stay that way for long. By the afternoon he was at her house, boots kicked off by the door, the familiar warmth of her living room settling into his bones. They sat on the floor in front of the couch, wrapping paper scattered in loose, crinkled piles around them, the air smelling faintly of pine and something sweet from the kitchen. 

Mel handed him her gift first, watching him carefully as he pulled it open, slower than usual for him, like he already knew it mattered.

When the paper fell away, he went completely still. A Littmann stethoscope rested in the box, the metal catching the light in. For a second, he didn’t touch it—just stared, like it wasn’t something meant for him yet. “Mel—” His voice came out quieter than expected, something caught underneath it. “How did you afford this?”

“I picked up a couple shifts at the library,” she said, brushing it off easily.

He let out a small breath, shaking his head once, his hand finally reaching out, fingers brushing the tubing, then the metal—careful, almost reverent. “I’m not even done my first year of pre-med,” he said, his voice softer now, more uncertain. “I don’t even know if—”

“I do,” she cut in gently.

He looked up at her then—really looked at her—the certainty in her face, the quiet way she said it like it wasn’t a question, like it had never been one. “Yeah,” he said finally, nodding once. “Yeah… okay.” Then he leaned forward and pulled her into him, tighter this time, one hand still loosely holding the box between them. “Thank you,” he murmured against her shoulder, his voice quieter now, more honest. “I’m gonna earn this. I swear I am.”

When he pulled back, he was already reaching for his own gift, pushing it toward her with a kind of restless excitement that hadn’t shown up anywhere else that day. “Okay, open yours.”

Mel took her time, dragging it out on purpose, her fingers working slowly at the edges of the wrapping paper while he sat forward on his knees, watching her like he might combust if she didn’t hurry.

“Hurry the fuck up or I’m gonna open it for you.”

“Okay, okay, jeez,” she laughed, finally pulling the paper free. The box opened, and she froze. A Nikon FM10 sat neatly inside. She let out a small gasp, her fingers hovering over it for just a second before picking it up. She had talked about this for years—wanting to shoot on film, wanting something tangible—and had never once followed through. “Frank…” she said quietly, the word barely holding everything behind it.

“Keep going,” he said, softer now, watching her.

Underneath there was a photo album, and beneath that, folded carefully, a navy blue crewneck with Penn State stitched across the front.  She lifted it, the fabric soft in her hands, and the second it moved, she caught the scent— something unmistakably him. She recognized it immediately, from the quiet, repetitive comfort of seeing it on him during late-night FaceTime calls. She pulled it on without hesitating. It hung slightly too big on her frame, the sleeves falling past her hands, the collar loose against her neck. She sank into it instinctively, like it was something she had been missing without realizing it.

Then, she opened the album. The first two pages were already filled, photographs carefully placed, edges aligned like he had taken his time with it. Campus buildings under pale autumn light, wide green spaces, the kind of places she had only ever heard him describe or seen on her phone. Pictures of his friends—faces she didn’t know but had heard about, people who had slowly filled the spaces she used to occupy. 

And at the end, a photo of him in his football uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat still visible along his hairline, holding up a small hand heart toward the camera, that familiar charming smile on his face.

“Jonas took that one,” Frank said, leaning slightly closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “After we absolutely obliterated Indiana.”

Mel smiled faintly, her thumb brushing the edge of the photo. “Oh, Jonas. He’s the one who calls you Frankenfurter, right?”

Frank sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“He seems nice.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They’re all pretty cool.”

There was a pause then, something softer settling in.

“I’m glad you’ve made so many friends,” she said, her voice warm, genuine—but something underneath it pulled tight, something she kept carefully out of reach.

“I’m glad school is going well for you too,” he added, quieter now. “I wish I could be there for you, but… it helps knowing you’re still having a good year. Even without me there.”

“Yeah,” she said, closing the album and resting it in her lap, her fingers lingering on the cover like she didn’t want to let go of it just yet.

Becca came into the room then, settling onto the recliner in the corner. She picked up the remote and turned on Elf, the opening music filling the room in a way that felt comforting and familiar. 

Mel shifted back first, moving from the floor to the couch, and Frank followed, sitting close enough that their sides pressed together. The movie played, bright and loud and predictable. The room was warm, the lights dimmed low enough to soften everything at the edges, and somewhere along the way, they drifted off and Becca had retreated to her own bed to sleep.

It felt like before.

Until it didn’t.

Frank woke slowly at first, the room quiet except for the faint, looping hum of the TV. For a second, everything felt warm and familiar—the weight of her against him, the soft dip of the couch, the steady rhythm he expected to find. 

Then something shifted, subtle but wrong, like the air itself had tightened without warning, pressing in around him before he fully understood why. Then he heard it. Her breathing, too fast, and too sharp—like it was catching on something inside her chest and tearing on the way out.

He turned immediately, the last pieces of sleep dropping away as his stomach twisted. Her body wasn’t just tense this time—it was rigid, pulled tight like a string stretched too far, her shoulders drawn in and her fingers clenched so hard into the fabric of his crewneck. Her face had twisted in on itself, brows pulled tight, lips parted like she was trying to speak and couldn’t.

“No—” It came out fractured, barely there, like the word had to force itself through something thick and suffocating. Then again, louder—breaking. “No—no, stop—”

Frank’s chest dropped. “Mel,” he said immediately, pushing himself upright, one hand already reaching for her, the other bracing against the couch like he needed something to steady himself. “Hey—hey, it’s okay, you’re okay—”

She didn’t respond. Her head thrashed faintly against the cushion, just enough to show she was fighting something he couldn’t see. Her breath came in short, choking bursts now, her chest rising too fast, too uneven, like she couldn’t pull enough air in no matter how hard she tried.

“Mel… wake up,” he said, sharper this time, fear slipping through despite how hard he tried to hold it back. His hand tightened around her arm, not rough, but firm enough to anchor her, to give her something real to feel. “Mel, sweetheart, it’s me.”

“No… Dad—” she gasped, the word tearing out of her like it hurt, like it was being dragged up from somewhere she couldn’t escape.

Something cold moved through him. “Hey…hey, no, no, you’re okay,” he said quickly, his voice dropping lower again, softer, even as his pulse hammered hard against his ribs. “You’re not there, Mel. You’re here. You’re safe.”

But she wasn’t coming back. Her hands had started shaking now, not small slight tremors but sharp, uneven movements, like her body was trying to pull itself out of something it couldn’t break free from. Her breathing hitched again—then again—until it sounded almost like she was choking on it.

“Mel—” his voice caught for a second before he forced it steady again. He shifted closer, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her upright slightly so she wasn’t trapped flat against the couch. “Breathe, okay? Just—just breathe, I’ve got you.”

Her eyes snapped open, terrified in a way that didn’t belong in this room, and for a second, she didn’t see him.

“Mel,” he said again, his forehead almost brushing hers. “Look at me, baby. It’s me.”

Her gaze flickered, frantic, searching—then finally landed, and everything in her seemed to collapse at once.

Her breath broke, a sharp inhale that turned into something shaky and uneven, her hands loosening just enough to grab onto him instead of just the fabric on his chest. She pushed herself closer without thinking, like her body knew exactly where to go even if the rest of her didn’t.

“I’m right here, baby,” he said, softer now, his hand moving up to the back of her head, holding her there. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She nodded, but it wasn’t convincing, her breathing still uneven, her chest rising too fast as she tried to catch up to something that had already passed. He kept his hand moving along her back, slow, steady, the same rhythm he’d used a hundred times before.

Eventually, her breathing started to slow, the sharp edges smoothing out into something softer, something closer to normal. Her grip on him loosened, just enough that she could rest against him instead of clinging. When she finally slipped back into sleep, it wasn’t as deep as before, her body still tense in small, lingering ways, like she hadn’t fully let go of whatever had taken her.

Frank stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t even consider moving. The room felt different now, the quiet heavier, the glow of the TV harsher against the dark. His chest still hadn’t settled, his heart beating slower now but unsteady. He looked down at her, at the way she had curled into him, her hand still resting against him like she didn’t trust what would happen if she let go completely.

And all he could think was—

This is what it’s like when I’m not here.

By the time Mel woke the next morning, the house was quiet. When she reached the kitchen, Frank was already there, bundled in his snow gear like he had been up for hours. Her own things were laid out neatly on the chair—jacket, gloves, boots—with a granola bar and a banana resting on top.

“Eat up, then get dressed." he said, already halfway to the door, his voice even but carrying something underneath it. "We’re going to the tree."

By the time she made it outside, the cold hit her sharply, the air crisp and biting as it filled her lungs. Frank was already in the truck, engine running, the windshield cleared, snow pushed off in uneven piles along the sides. She climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her, and was immediately met with warmth that felt almost too sudden against the chill still clinging to her skin.

The inside of the truck smelled different now.

“When did you start smoking?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended, eyes flicking toward him before settling forward again.

Frank shrugged slightly, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. “I don’t know. Just… parties, I guess. Everyone does it. Kinda just stuck.”

Mel nodded, her fingers tightening briefly in her lap before she forced them to relax, the response sitting heavier than it should have. She swallowed whatever else came up with it, pressing it down before it could take shape, reminding herself quietly that she didn’t get to have an opinion on it anymore—not really. 

He was at college, living a life she wasn’t part of, making choices that didn’t include her in the same way they used to.

They didn’t talk after that. The drive stretched out in silence, the tires crunching steadily over packed snow as they made their way toward Mr. Madison’s field. The world outside the windows was washed in white, everything quieter, slower, like the whole town had been dimmed. Frank kept his eyes on the road, his grip on the wheel steady, while Mel watched the familiar turns pass by.

Eventually, they stepped out, the cold cutting sharper now, wind brushing lightly across their faces as they made their way toward the woods. The snow was deep, each step sinking further than expected, the effort of it slowing them down. They didn’t speak. By the time they reached the tree, the quiet had settled into something heavier. The fallen trunk was dusted with snow, the bark peeking through in familiar lines where it had been worn down over time. They brushed a spot clear without thinking, the motion automatic, practiced.

Then they sat side by side, close, but not touching.

Mel’s hand moved without hesitation, fingers finding the carved initials, tracing the grooves like she had done a thousand times before. The cold had fully settled into everything by the time Frank finally spoke. He didn’t look at her right away, his gaze fixed somewhere out across the snow-covered field, jaw set tighter than he probably meant it to be.

“I thought you weren’t having nightmares anymore?” he asked, his voice low and careful, but there was something under it—something strained, something unsettled that hadn’t been there before.

Mel let out a slow breath, her fingers still tracing the carved initials, the grooves now cold beneath her skin. She had known this was coming the second he suggested the tree, the second she saw the way he looked at her that morning. “I have them sometimes, but—”

“Becca told me it happens almost every night.”

The interruption landed heavier than it should have, cutting through whatever softer version of the conversation she had been trying to build. Mel closed her eyes for a second, the breath she let out thinner this time, edged with frustration that had nowhere clean to go. “Yeah, well that’s not Becca’s business to tell.”

“Mel, that was fucking terrifying.” His voice sharpened, like the memory of it was still sitting too close to the surface.

“They’re not that bad anymore—”

“I know you’re lying, Mel.” He turned toward her fully now, the movement sudden enough to pull her attention whether she wanted it or not. “That was way worse than anything I’ve seen before. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand stilled against the tree, fingers pressing into the grooves like she could ground herself there long enough to avoid saying anything at all. “I didn’t think it was that important,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be, but steady enough to land.

“What the fuck?” The words came out sharper now, disbelief cutting through whatever control he’d been holding onto. “Actually? You thought having terrible night terrors wasn’t important?”

Mel shrugged, small and dismissive, like the movement could carry more weight than the words she wasn’t saying. She kept her gaze forward, refusing to meet his, the cold air stinging faintly against her face where tears had already started to gather.

“Of course something like would be important to me.” he said, his voice lower now, but no less intense. “You’re the most important thing in the world, Mel.”

The words hit something in her chest, something she didn’t want to feel, something she couldn’t afford to sit with. “I’m sure there’s things you’ve done that I have no idea about,” she said instead, her tone shifting just enough, redirecting, deflecting, pushing the focus anywhere but here. “Things at college. Things you don’t tell me.”

She knew it wasn't fair, but it was easier than staying on herself.

“Mel, please don’t be like this,” he said, the frustration in his voice softening into something closer to pleading, something that made it harder to ignore.

“I want to go home,” she said, cutting through it cleanly.

“I want to talk about this—”

“Yeah, well I don’t.” she said, her words ending the conversation in a way nothing else could have, final and closed, like a door she had no intention of opening again. “Bring me home.”

He hesitated long enough for it to register, for something unspoken to pass between them before he stood, brushing his snow pants in a motion that felt more abrupt than really necessary. “Okay,” he said finally.

They made their way back through the woods in silence, the snow felt deeper now, heavier, each step slower than the last. The cold bit harder on the walk back, or maybe it was just everything else settling in around them, filling the space where words should have been

By the time they reached the truck, her fingers felt stiff, her face numb in places where tears had dried too quickly in the cold air. She climbed in without speaking, turning her body slightly toward the window and away from him as the door shut.

The drive back felt longer than it had on the way there. The tires hummed against the road, the sound steady and unchanging, filling the silence neither of them broke. Frank kept his eyes forward, but every so often, he glanced over, catching her reflection in the glass.

Tears traced quiet paths down her cheeks, catching the faint light from passing houses, visible only in the reflection. She didn’t wipe them away. She didn’t acknowledge them at all.

When they pulled into her driveway, she was out of the truck before he could say anything, the door shutting behind her with a dull, final sound. She didn’t look back as she walked to the front door, her shoulders set, her steps steady in a way that didn’t match the rest of her.

Frank stayed where he was—hands still on the wheel, engine running—and watched the door close behind her, the house swallowing her up in one quiet motion. He didn’t follow. He knew it wouldn’t help.

When he finally drove away, the trip back to his house blurred together. The house felt quieter when he stepped inside, heavier somehow, his parents sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the space between them always wide and unspoken. He just walked past them and down the hallway, the floor creaking faintly under his steps before he shut himself into his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes, his phone already in his hand before he fully registered even reaching for it. His thumb hovered over the screen, the words sitting there, waiting.

I’m always here, Mel. I’m ready to talk when you are.

He stared at it for a second longer before hitting send.

Then he leaned back against the mattress, the exhaustion from the night spent watching Mel and the morning finally catching up to him all at once.

Mel sat curled into the chair in the corner of her room, the fabric rough against her bare legs, the quiet pressing in too tightly around her. The house had settled into evening without her, the distant clatter of dishes long since faded, the low murmur of voices downstairs replaced by a stillness that felt almost deliberate. She stared at nothing for a long time, her jaw tight, her fingers curled into the sleeves of Frank’s crewneck like she needed something to hold onto.

For a moment—just a moment—she wanted to be angry. Wanted to storm downstairs, to snap at Becca, to demand why she had said anything at all, why she had taken something private and handed it over like it wasn’t hers to protect. The feeling flared hot and quick, sharp enough to almost move her out of the chair. But she knew better. Knew Becca hadn’t meant anything by it beyond concern, beyond that quiet, unwavering care she always had for her. Knew Frank hadn’t asked out of curiosity, hadn’t pushed because he wanted to make things harder. 

He cared. 

That was the problem. 

That was always the problem.

Mel let out a slow breath, her shoulders dropping slightly as the tension drained into something heavier, something harder to shake. Her phone sat beside her on the arm of the chair. She picked it up without thinking.

I’m always here, Mel. I’m ready to talk when you are.

It had been eight hours since he sent it, and she had read it more times than she could count, each time letting it settle somewhere deeper without doing anything about it. Outside, the light had already faded, the sky slipping into that deep, early winter darkness that came too quickly, leaving the room dim except for the soft orange glow of her lava lamp.

She swallowed, her throat tight in a way that made it hard to breathe evenly. He had just left not that long ago. She knew that it was unfair to ask him to come back, knew he was probably exhausted, probably already asleep or trying to be. The thought sat there, heavy and reasonable, something she could have held onto if she really wanted to, but she didn’t. Her fingers moved before she could overthink it, thumbs hovering over the screen for a second before she started typing.

I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have shut you down like that. I know you were just trying to help and I made it harder than it needed to be.

She paused, staring at the words, her chest tightening slightly as she read them back, then she kept going.

If you’re still up, could you come over? I know you literally just left and I’m really sorry for asking that, but I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to talk. I really do.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a second longer, hesitation flickering through her like a last chance to pull back. She let out a sigh as she pressed it.

Not even ten minutes later, the soft, uneven glow of his headlights curved into her driveway, cutting briefly across her bedroom window before settling. Her chest tightened before she could stop it, her breath catching her throat. She heard the front door open downstairs, her mom’s voice, warm and surprised. Frank’s, quieter, steadier, like he was trying not to disturb anything more than he already had. The sounds blurred together into something indistinct, her focus narrowing to the hallway just outside her room. Then came the knock—soft, measured, familiar enough to undo something in her chest she hadn’t realized was still holding tight.

“Come in,” she said.

The door opened, and there he was, framed in the doorway like nothing had shifted between them at all, like he hadn’t left earlier, like the hours in between hadn’t stretched the distance thin and fragile.  Mel stood without thinking, her body moving before her mind could catch up, and he crossed the room just as quickly, closing the space between them in two long steps.

He pulled her into him immediately, tight and steady. “I’m sorry, Mel,” he said quietly, his voice low against her hair, his hand pressing gently into her back. “I shouldn’t have pushed like that. I just—I didn’t know it was that bad.”

She shook her head against him, her grip tightening slightly in the fabric of his jacket. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, the words coming out softer now, worn down by everything that had already passed. “I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. I know you were just trying to help.”

He didn’t let go right away, and neither did she.

When they finally pulled apart, it was only enough to sit, the movement familiar, automatic, like they had done a thousand times before. Frank leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent slightly, while Mel shifted beside him before letting herself fall sideways, her head hanging just slightly off the edge of the mattress, her legs stretching across his lap without hesitation. His hands found her knees instinctively, thumbs brushing soft, slow arcs against her skin.

She started talking before she could second-guess it. At first it came out halting, uneven, the words catching in places she didn’t expect them to, but once she started, she didn’t stop. She told him about the nightmares—how they had changed, how they felt sharper now, more vivid, like she wasn’t remembering something but reliving it. How sometimes she’d wake up disoriented, heart racing, her room unfamiliar for a few seconds too long.

She told him about her mom. About waking up to find her sitting beside the bed, tears already streaming down her face before Mel had even fully come back. About the way her mom tried to stay quiet because she didn’t want to make it worse, because she didn’t know how to make it better.

She told him about Becca. About the nights when her nightmares didn’t stay contained to her own body, when they spilled out into the house loud enough to wake her sister. Becca would hear it—the uneven breathing, the broken sounds, the way Mel’s voice would catch on something that wasn’t there—and she would come immediately, drawn to it without hesitation. She never tried to wake Mel herself. She would stand in the doorway, overwhelmed but certain, and start calling for their mom—loud, urgent, again and again—her voice cutting through the house until someone came.

And their mom always did. Moving between them, trying to ground one while calming the other, pulled in two directions at once by something none of them could control.

Frank didn’t interrupt or rush her. He just listened, his hands never stopping, his thumbs moving in the same steady rhythm against her knees, something constant she could hold onto without thinking about it.

“Are you still seeing your psychologist?” he asked gently when she paused long enough to breathe.

She nodded, her eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling. “Yeah. I go every week.”

Time slipped without either of them noticing. The conversation shifted in small ways—less heavy, then heavy again, circling back when it needed to, moving forward when it could. 

Eventually, her voice slowed, her words spaced out, her body shifted slightly as the weight of everything began to settle into something quieter. She moved without thinking, pushing herself up just enough to slide closer, tucking herself into the space beneath his arm.

He placed his around her easily, automatically, his hand settling against her shoulder as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

“I love you, Melissa King,” he said quietly.

She huffed out the faintest breath of a laugh, something soft and tired but real. “I love you more, Frank Langdon.”

At some point, Mel’s breathing evened out, the tension leaving her body piece by piece until she went still against him, her weight settling fully into his side. Sleep took her quickly, deeper than it had in a long time, like something inside her had finally loosened its grip.

Frank didn’t follow, not even close. He stayed exactly where he was as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing, slow and steady now, nothing like the sharp, uneven rhythm from the night before.

Her face looked different in sleep. The tight lines that usually pulled at her expression had eased, her brows relaxed, her mouth slightly parted in a way that made her look younger, like something had finally let her rest.

A strand of hair had fallen loose across her cheek, catching the low light, and he resisted the urge to move it, not wanting to risk waking her.

He stayed like that for hours. Waiting for any shift, any sign that something might pull her back into it again. The room stayed quiet, the house still, the night stretching on without interruption.

And for the first time in months, she stayed asleep.

By the time the first hint of morning crept in, pale light pushing slowly over the mountains and through the edge of her window, Frank’s eyes had started to burn, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up to him. He kept his eyes on her as long as he could, long enough to make sure she was still steady, still there. Then, finally, his eyes closed; just for a little while.

When Mel went back to school after New Year’s, the world didn’t feel quite as hollow as it had before, though it still carried that quiet absence beneath everything. Frank hadn’t left yet, and that small fact softened the edges of her days in ways she hadn’t expected, like a temporary extension of something she knew couldn’t last. 

Every morning, she and Becca climbed into his truck, the cold air chasing them in before the doors shut, and he’d already have the heat running, the familiar hum of the engine filling the space between them.

Afternoons were the same. He’d be there when school let out, leaning against the truck or sitting inside with one arm thrown over the steering wheel. Mel and Becca would climb in, snow melting off their shoes, their voices filling the space in small, overlapping ways that felt steady again. 

The roads back home blurred into something comfortable, the kind of repetition that made everything feel briefly like it had slipped back into place.

They spent the rest of their time the same way they always had, without needing to plan it out. Sitting in her living room, wandering through town, driving nowhere in particular just to fill the space between hours.

When the day came for him to leave again, it didn’t hit the same way. It was still there, of course—the weight of it, the knowing—but it wasn’t something either of them tried to avoid this time. They spent the entire day together, driving through familiar roads. They talked, not about anything too heavy, but real enough to fill the space without letting it go quiet.

By the time he pulled into her driveway, the sky had already started to dim, that early evening blue settling in around them. Neither of them rushed to move. The engine idled softly, heat still pushing through the vents, wrapping around them in a way that made it harder to leave.

Mel looked over at him, her expression softer than it had been the last time he left, something steadier sitting behind it. There was still something there—of course there was—but it wasn’t sharp anymore.

He leaned over first, pulling her into a hug that felt less desperate this time, more certain. She held onto him just as easily, her hands resting against his back without gripping too tightly, without trying to hold him there longer than he could stay.

“I’ll see you in April,” he said, his voice low but sure.

“Yeah,” she answered, just as softly. “I’ll see you in April.”

They pulled apart without hesitation this time, without that same lingering pause, like they both understood that letting go didn’t mean losing it entirely. She stepped out of the truck, the cold air rushing back in around her, and he waited just long enough to watch her reach the door.

She turned once before going inside, a sad smile on her face and a tear glistening in his headlights as it rolled down her cheek.

He gave a small nod, holding his own back until she closed the door behind her.