WE ARE IN THE DARK All three will remember this differently.
This is where the story fractures.
There is a kiss. Or there isn’t. (Or there is more)
Or there is, but not how it’s remembered.
Intimacy without clarity is still intimacy.
We are in the dark. Together. Whether that is comfort or threat remains unresolved
It is winter. Not poetic winter — but that brittle, metallic kind. The air smells like iron and distant smoke. Frost stiffens the ground. Every breath is visible. The trees were black silhouettes against a sky the colour of old bruises.
Snow clung to the branches in thin, trembling lines.
The air was so damn cold it felt hollow — like sound couldn’t travel through it.
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