Between Nowhere and Not Yet
The first snowfall of the season arrived without fanfare—just as it always did. In the hush of night, it blanketed the mountain in a delicate veil of white, softening the scars left by weeks of rain. It muted the wilted meadows and cloaked the bare, contorted trees, giving them—for a brief spell—a gentler silhouette.
For a little while, the ugliness beneath was hidden.
But like any bandage stretched over rot, the illusion didn’t last. The snow melted quickly, exposing every soggy blemish to daylight once more.
Nic’s boots squelched through the icy mud.
Dirty ribbons of snow still clung to the roots of trees and the undersides of shrubs. It had only been a few days, but the weak winter sun had already stripped the world of its disguise. There was no crispness, no clarity. Only slush. The ground was wet and reluctant, the air thick with the smell of wet bark and decay.
Unlike early spring—when snowmelt brought blooms and reckless color—this lingering between freeze and thaw brought nothing but silence and sludge. The land seemed just as weary as he was.
He had been walking for hours. Maybe longer. Maybe days. There was no destination—just motion. He veered away from deep mud. Took whatever path seemed less traveled. When thetrails ran out, he followed birdsong and the rustle of small animals skittering through the underbrush.
There was something clean in the wandering. Directionless, yes—but freeing. He didn’t have to be Nic-the-son, Nic-the-lover, Nic-the-wolf-who-no-longer-was. Out here, there were no roles to play. No one to charm. No one to disappoint. As long as he didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t have to brace for what waited at the end.
Here, in the weightless space between nowhere and not-yet, the ache in his heart’s lake could finally breathe.
He knew exactly how far he'd unraveled.
After Nesaea, memory had ceased to be a thread—it was shrapnel. Nothing linear, nothing clean. The night lived behind his eyes, jagged and constant. Guilt churned like acid in his gut, burning through his appetite, his sleep, his ability to be still. For weeks, he buried himself in labor. Anything to stay moving, grinding, distracted. But even that collapsed. His father had pulled him from the project, saying he looked like a dying man.
So he turned to Helen.
At first, she was his sanctuary. Then—his mirror. She asked him to talk. He reached for her body. She offered comfort. He bristled with impatience. He was raw, bleeding from a wound he couldn’t see, and every time she tried to help, it only cut him deeper.
They fought often. Violently. No fists—just venom.
His words, cutting through the softest places in her.
He never meant them. But that didn't matter. They were said. And when he left—he always left—he did so with her tears etched behind his ribs. Each time, it hollowed him a little more.
The last fight was different. Worse.
They’d shut themselves inside her villa and screamed until the walls shook. He didn’t remember what set it off—someglance, some question. Maybe something she'd cooked, or something she'd worn. Something stupid. Something normal.
He remembered the sound of her voice breaking. The tightness in his throat. The cold fury in his own words.
By the time dawn crowned the hillside, he had wrenched the door open and vanished into the frost, her voice following him, cracked and pleading,Don’t go. Please. Stay.
He hadn’t looked back.
Now, he couldn’t even recall what he'd accused her of. Only the echo remained—his voice, low and cruel, saying something he couldn’t un-say.
What if that was the end?
What if he had finally carved too deep, and there was no more healing to be done?
She had always been his light. His compass. Without her... who the hell was he supposed to be?
He kicked at the slush beneath his boots. It splashed cold against his trousers, grounding and senseless.
His hands clenched into fists.
He missed her. He hated himself. And he didn't know how to fix what he'd broken—only that if he didn’t find a way, the dark might swallow the last part of him that still remembered what it felt like to love.
