Snowfall always felt smaller at night.
Not physically—no, the town stayed the same—but emotionally, like the darkness pressed everything inward. The streets grew quiet, the buildings hunched against the cold, and even memories seemed louder when there was nothing else to distract from them.
Anita stood by her bedroom window, curtain half drawn, watching snowflakes drift lazily beneath the streetlamp. Her phone rested in her palm, screen glowing softly in the dim room.
She pressed play again.
Liam's voice filled the space—low, tired, unguarded.
"…I don't know. Today just felt long. One thing after another. I didn't even realize how exhausted I was until I stopped moving."
She closed her eyes.
It wasn't what he said. It was how he said it. The pause between words. The faint sigh he hadn't edited out. The honesty that slipped through when people were too tired to perform.
Anita replayed it a third time before finally locking her phone.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing. She told herself this was ridiculous. People sent voice notes all the time. Friends vented. This didn't mean anything.
And yet.
Something had shifted.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling, memories creeping in uninvited. Late-night conversations. Lingering looks. The way Liam listened—not just to her words, but to what she avoided saying.
Her phone buzzed again.
She sat up instantly.
Liam: Didn't mean to sound so worn out earlier.
Her thumb hovered above the screen.
Anita: You don't have to apologize. I'm glad you told me.
She watched the typing bubble appear… disappear… then return.
Liam: I almost didn't send it.
Her heart beat faster.
Anita: Why?
This time, the pause stretched longer. Long enough for her mind to spiral. Long enough for doubt to whisper that she was reading too much into everything.
Then:
Liam: Because it felt too honest.
She swallowed.
Honesty had always scared her. It stripped away control. It forced people to confront things they were pretending not to feel.
Anita: Sometimes that's not a bad thing.
Another pause.
Liam: Can we talk tomorrow? Properly.
Tomorrow.
Not tonight. Not now. Tomorrow—when things could be rationalized, when emotions could be softened by daylight.
Still, she typed:
Anita: Yeah. Tomorrow's fine.
She set the phone down, but sleep didn't come easily. Her thoughts chased each other in circles—what he wanted to say, what she might hear, what would happen if one of them crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
Snowfall creaked and settled around her, indifferent to her restlessness.
Morning came pale and sharp.
Anita dressed slowly, choosing comfort over effort. A thick sweater. Jeans. Boots that had seen too many winters. She paused in front of the mirror, studying her reflection.
You're overthinking, she told herself.
Still, her chest felt tight as she stepped outside, cold air biting at her cheeks. The walk to the café felt longer than usual, each step echoing with anticipation.
The bell chimed as she entered.
Warmth wrapped around her immediately, the scent of coffee and baked goods grounding her. Conversations buzzed softly, mugs clinked, laughter rose and fell.
And then she saw him.
Liam sat by the window, shoulders slightly hunched, untouched coffee in front of him. He looked up as she approached, something easing in his expression when their eyes met.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They sat across from each other, an awkward familiarity settling in. Not uncomfortable—just charged.
"I didn't sleep much," Liam admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Anita gave a small smile. "Because you were tired?"
"Because I kept thinking," he corrected.
She nodded, waiting.
"I don't want to keep pretending this is casual," he said quietly. "Whatever this is."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
"Neither do I," she replied before she could stop herself.
For a moment, he just looked at her, like he hadn't expected her to meet him there.
"There's something you should know," he continued. "Before this goes any further."
Her fingers tightened around her cup. "Okay."
"I might be leaving Snowfall."
The world stilled.
"Leaving?" she echoed.
"There's an opportunity. Not definite yet." He met her eyes. "But I didn't want you hearing it from someone else."
Anita inhaled slowly. Leaving meant distance. Distance meant uncertainty. And uncertainty was something she had spent years trying to avoid.
"I appreciate you telling me," she said, even though her voice felt distant to her own ears.
Liam reached across the table, stopping just short of touching her hand. The almost-contact felt intentional—respectful, restrained.
"I don't know what this means yet," he said. "But I know I don't want to face it without being honest with you."
She nodded, eyes dropping briefly to the space between them.
They didn't touch.
They didn't pull away.
And that unresolved space lingered long after they left the café.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
Anita moved through errands, conversations, obligations like she was underwater. Every thought circled back to the same point—leaving. To what she would do if he stayed. To what she would feel if he didn't.
By evening, Snowfall buzzed with quiet gossip. News traveled fast in small towns, and by the time Anita stepped into the grocery store, she caught more than one curious glance.
She bumped into Mara near the produce section.
"You look distracted," Mara observed.
"Do I?" Anita tried to sound casual.
"Very."
Anita hesitated, then shook her head. "Just tired."
Mara studied her for a moment longer but let it drop. "Town's restless lately. Feels like something's about to change."
Anita forced a smile. "Doesn't it always?"
But the words echoed.
That night, Liam didn't text.
Anita lay awake, staring at the ceiling, realizing that the hardest part wasn't the uncertainty—it was how much she already cared.
Because leaving didn't scare her.
Losing the possibility did.