Winter's pov.
Winter’s first meeting with her had been at university.
How old had she been then? When she was failing so many classes?
She had been a party-hardy, untamable force, confident in every step. She wasn’t egocentric, but her eccentricity gave off that impression to those who failed to understand her, to those who didn’t want to be involved in her chaotic life.
Like Winter. Like she had been back then.
The only thing that had kept Winter from moving on with her life was that this girl had been her first friend.
Winter had often daydreamed about them, imagining a different timeline where they had grown up together, far from the city, far from any suburbs in this sorry excuse of a country.
They would have loved walking along coastal waters, feeling the seafoam under their feet, tickling and tantalizing. They would have loved the simplicity of it all—the way things were, how they had come to be, and how they would continue.
That had been the vision Winter had wanted whenever she looked at her.
But instead, she was stuck with this girl’s horrible way of living.
The filth. The grunge. The noise.
Winter would tell herself she could always stop this, that she could leave her.
"I’m sorry, Winter." She had heard those words at least eleven times, though Winter had stopped counting.
Had she kept track, she might have realized how deep she had dug herself into a hole of foreseeable regret. And maybe then she could have left her behind.
What could she lose, really? She should have packed up long ago, gone back to her hometown, and lied her way through everything just to forget this girl even existed. To forget she had met her at some point in her life.
Their friendship, diminished, and Winter would have been content that way.
But no, Winter was still here, bringing pills and coffee for hangovers, handing over notes from a colleague to help her struggling grades.
She lived in a different building, outside the campus area, but nothing compared to the nights spent at her flat, worrying over God knows what happened to her busted nose or bruised cheek when she came back.
There had been a flicker of hope one night when Winter stayed again, trying to dab some antiseptic on the little scabs of torn skin that bled from a drunken fight.
Winter’s hand was gently pulled away from the cloth, her fingers instead caressed softly. Her ears filled with the sound of the girl’s voice: "You ever get tired of this? Taking care of someone this broken?"
"Sooner or later, I’ll leave this apartment. I have no money left to pay rent, and I’ll leave college altogether." The way she said it to Winter felt like an omen. Was she pushing her away? Winter wondered.
There had been that initial spark of hope, but it was clouded by an unsettling unease.
She was willingly distancing herself from Winter, as if trying to save her from the inescapability Winter had deliberately chosen over and over. Was she trying to take the action Winter was too afraid to make?
Why was Winter afraid in the first place? Of course, she was tired. Tired of the girl not trying, tired of being dragged into the pit of her own hell.
Winter sat by her side, the antiseptic cloth long forgotten. She had no words left. No fight. The girl’s hand found hers, and for a moment, everything felt quiet. Winter didn’t know what would come next, only that she was still here. Still holding on. Somehow, it was enough.
The day came after, then the night, and the girl's healed knuckles burst once more. But Winter was still there to help her. Somehow, she always would be.