Had Enough

"I'm really sorry about last night."

Andrea's words, for once, felt real—raw and unfiltered. Twyla chose to believe them, if only for the sake of the others lingering nearby who were pretending not to eavesdrop. Carter and the jerk from the night before were conspicuously absent from the riverside campsite Andrea had invited her to. Earlier that day, Andrea had called Calian—insistently. He'd passed the phone to her with a hopeful glance. Not wanting to escalate things any further, she'd agreed to come. Why not? A fire under the stars sounded easier than another argument.

"Did you send the payment?" she asked, smirking to cover her nerves.

Andrea laughed, flipping her hair with that trademark glimmer in her eye.

"I apologized so I wouldn't have to!" she quipped, the smile not quite reaching her eyes.

They shared a chuckle, fleeting as smoke in the air. Moments later, Andrea had drifted off to join a group of friends, barely looking Twyla's way again. Not that she'd expected anything different.

Serah and Lara, two of Andrea's longtime companions, wandered over and flanked her with beers in hand. They settled down beside her near the bonfire, its warmth licking their faces as the flames danced.

"Sorry about Andrea," Serah said, handing her a drink. "She zones out when things get awkward."

"Honestly, we couldn't figure out why she didn't clear up the misunderstanding right away. Poor Earl left the camp in the middle of the night," Lara added, shaking her head.

"Yeah, and Calian... I've never seen him like that before," Serah chimed in.

At first, Twyla thought they were just gossiping to stir drama, throwing Andrea under the bus for amusement. She stayed silent, but curiosity began to gnaw at her.

"Calian?" she asked, cautiously.

"He was furious. Not like, yelling or punching walls—more like this controlled, chilling anger," Serah said, shuddering. "Earl looked like a wrung-out dishcloth next to him."

Twyla took a long swig of her beer, letting it burn down her throat. Her stomach twisted.

Why do you still make me feel this way?

Beer numbed her lips and blurred her thoughts. Before long, she wandered away from the crowd to a secluded patch behind the trees, stumbling over pine needles until she found a mossy stone slab. She sank down, tilted her head back, and let her gaze wander. Above her, the sky sprawled like a velvet curtain pricked with diamonds. A hush fell over the earth just as five meteors streaked across the night, blazing trails of silver fire.

"You're here," came a familiar voice.

She turned, blinking blearily at Calian. He stood there, hands in his coat pockets, watching her with quiet concern.

"Look up!" she grinned, her words slurred and slow. "It's so… magical!"

"You're drunk, Twyla. Come on. I'll take you home."

He stepped forward to steady her, but she yanked her arm away with sudden force.

"Stop being nice to me!"

"Twyla—"

"Why can't it be me?"

His eyes went wide, shocked still as she grabbed his collar, pulling him down until their lips met—clumsy, hot, and laced with desperation.

"Why don't you love me?"

"Twyla!" Andrea's voice sliced through the air.

She stormed forward, yanked Calian back, and slapped Twyla across the cheek. The sound cracked like a whip.

"Stay away from us!"

Twyla's ears rang. Her vision blurred—not from the slap, but from the scene that followed: Andrea reaching out to Calian, him hesitating only for a second before taking her hand.

"No, Calian," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the bonfire's crackle. "She's not the one for you."

He turned to look at her—just a flicker of hesitation—and then followed Andrea into the shadows.

How she made it home that night, she would never remember. But in the morning, the fragments came rushing back with cruel clarity. She tried calling Calian. No answer. She messaged him. Nothing. She messaged Andrea. Still nothing. Unread. Blocked. Erased. It was her fault. She knew it. And yet, the ache of being left alone again shredded her all the same.

One year later.

Twyla stood at her front door, hesitant to take that first step. The winter air bit through her coat. Ever since the tabloids released the photos of her and Carter, her peace was shattered. Customers fled her coffee shop. Neighbors whispered. So she made a choice—to leave. Her friend overseas had offered her a place to land, and that was enough.

She dragged her suitcase forward, its wheels rattling on the cold concrete like the tremble of her heart.

It all spiraled quickly after Calian and Andrea vanished from her life. Carter began frequenting her café. He had a shoot nearby and would visit daily, flooding her shop with fresh bouquets and that crooked, charming grin. His affections were extravagant, almost absurd, but they wore her down. Slowly, her pain softened. She let go of her feelings for Calian and gave Carter a chance. For six months, it felt like she was in a dream. But then... the dream cracked.

The calls became relentless. The texts obsessive. She discovered he'd hired people to track her whereabouts. If a man smiled at her, Carter noticed—and he didn't like it. The tipping point came after a rough shift when a customer grabbed her hand. Carter burst into the night unannounced, shouting. One angry slap ended everything. It didn't bruise, and he cried right after, begging forgiveness—but something in her broke that night. She ended it.

He didn't accept it.

Paparazzi swarmed. Stories spread like wildfire. His fans turned rabid. They vandalized her café, doxxed her, and sent threats. She stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. The worst was when elderly patrons stood up for her during a confrontation with teens. She broke down in tears mid-shift. That was the moment she knew she had to say goodbye. Goodbye to the café, to her city, to everything she'd built.

Her friend Kayla, now a mom of three, welcomed her but couldn't host her. Still, she helped her land a job at a ski resort, complete with modest worker lodging. Twyla took it. Peace was a paycheck and a pair of skis away. Her first full night there, she slept like the dead.

She worked ticketing for the cable cars. It was quiet. Clean. No flashbulbs. No whispers. Just cold air and snow.

"Next, please!"

"Twyla?"

She froze. Andrea. Hair dyed silver-blonde, an effortless winter goddess. Twyla offered her a professional smile. Her stomach churned.

Andrea handed her a card. Twyla processed three tickets. Just three. Her eyes didn't wander.

"Twyla."

Carter. She forced herself to look up. But her gaze snagged on the man beside him.

Calian.

"Good morning. How many tickets?" she asked, voice even.

Even though Andrea had already paid, the words spilled from her like a reflex. People behind them grumbled, and Calian gently nudged Carter to move along.

Twyla's heart hammered, but she remained composed.

She would not give them the power to disrupt her peace.

After work, she stuck to her plan: ski until her legs burned, then reward herself with dinner at her favorite new restaurant. Unfortunately, the trio had the same idea. She spotted them on the slopes, and later again at the lodge's restaurant—her at a cozy two-seater, them-gathered around a four-top nearby.

She kept her eyes on her plate. Distance wasn't always measured in feet.

"Twyla! Come sit with us!" Andrea called out, her voice light and inviting, as if no history haunted their table.

Twyla's pulse skipped. Her blood turned to ice.

The server had just approached her with a plate of pancakes, but Andrea intercepted with a charismatic smile, gesturing for the dish to be placed at their table. The server hesitated, confused, glancing between them.

Twyla gave a tight smile. "It's alright," she murmured, standing from her seat like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. She crossed the short distance and sat stiffly beside Andrea, whose warmth felt more performative than genuine.

"Your hair is so long and thick! Is it natural?" Andrea cooed, fingers briefly brushing Twyla's dark strands like a stylist admiring a client.

Twyla responded with a flicker of a smile, quickly turning her attention to her plate. The pancakes—fluffy, buttery, sweetened with berries and maple syrup—were usually her small joy in this town. Not today. Not with these people. Even before the first bite, she could tell they'd taste of ash. Carter, all charm and unrelenting smiles, pushed a crème brûlée toward her. Her throat tightened as though corked. She swallowed hard, forcing civility over the growing panic in her chest.

Once, she would have snapped at him. The old Twyla had no patience for this sort of artificial civility. But that woman had been eroded—softened by sleepless nights, shattered trust, and the haunting sense that even when she screamed, no one heard her.

She was spiraling into silence when Calian suddenly reached across the table and slid the crème brûlée toward himself.

"I want to eat this," he said casually.

All three turned toward him, surprised.

Andrea forced a laugh. "Then you should've said so earlier."

Twyla stared at the empty spot in front of her. Even small kindnesses from him felt unbearable now. They carved at old wounds. She pushed her chair back abruptly, the legs scraping the floor.

"I should get going. Enjoy your stay," she said in a clipped, professional tone, and turned to leave.

"Twyla! Wait!" Calian's voice followed her out into the cold air.

She kept walking, weaving through the crowd gathering around the shuttle service. But the footfalls behind her quickened. His hand caught her wrist, firm and warm even through her jacket.

"Please. Just for a minute," he said, breathless.

She turned slightly, just enough to glance at her watch. "Next time, maybe. I need to catch the shuttle."

"What time?"

She checked again, stalling. "I really have to go."

She started to turn back, but his grip didn't loosen.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I should've reached out. I just... You were drunk and..."

She sighed, the cold air clouding her breath. "Calian. I crossed a line that night. You don't have to apologize. If I'm forgiven, then that's more than enough. Andrea doesn't need to try so hard just because we were once friends. It's fine. We're fine."

He let go. Then took her hand again, more desperately this time.

God, why is he always like this?

"Then come with us."

"What?"

"We rented a house. Just for a night. To catch up."

"I have work tomorrow."

"You start in the afternoon, right? We'll bring you back before then."

"But—"

"You just said we're fine. Or are you avoiding us?"

She almost barked out a laugh. Are you serious? I kissed you and begged you to leave your girlfriend. What do you think?

Calian beamed. "Come on."

Without giving her a real choice, he gently tugged her forward—and she followed. His smile disarmed her, like always. Her chest ached in ways she thought she'd buried for good.

The cabin they reached was one of two nestled close together. One was for her and Andrea, the other for Calian and Carter. Andrea greeted her sweetly, like nothing had happened, and Carter looked downright elated, his gaze clinging to her like a second skin. She avoided it.

Dinner passed with forced laughter and fragments of conversation. They shared stories of the year behind them, filled the silence with idle talk, and she played along, answering when addressed, never more. There were far too many unsaid things, too many memories curdled and bitter between her and Carter.

After using the washroom, she headed toward the living room—then stopped short. Carter was on the sofa. She veered into the kitchen instead, halting when she caught a sharp tone of voice. Andrea and Calian were arguing, voices rising with every word.

She was about to leave quietly when her name surfaced like a stone tossed into a still lake.

"You think this is easy for me? But I'm still doing it!" Andrea snapped, emotion trembling through her words.

"Doing what? Are we still stuck on that night?"

"She kissed you! How am I supposed to forget that?"

"You said it was behind us. You said you'd moved on."

"No, Calian. You don't get it. We're only here for Carter. He was spiraling, and the agency begged us to help. That's why we came. Not for her. Never for someone like her!"

The words hit Twyla like sleet against bare skin.

She turned away and went to the living room. Carter, still radiant with hope, stood as she entered.

"Go get your coat," she said softly. "Let's walk."

Snow crunched beneath their boots as they wandered past the cabins. The trees stretched high above, frosted and majestic, swaying gently in the wind. Warm lights blinked from the windows, snapshots of lives unfolding in quiet comfort. The scenery was so breathtaking, it momentarily stilled the storm in her chest.

They reached the final cabin, and she stopped.

"Carter. Do you remember the day you came to the café and ordered that godawful shaved ice?"

He smiled with nostalgic affection. "It was your new invention."

"It tasted horrible. I couldn't believe you finished it. I felt awful."

"It worked, didn't it? That was the day you finally agreed to date me."

"Because I pitied you," she teased softly. "Imagine—taking pity on a wildly successful, dazzling celebrity. It's the perfect love story."

They both laughed.

Then she reached out and took his hand—the same hand that had once held hers tenderly, and later, shattered everything.

"We had good times," she whispered.

"Twyla…"

"But that's all they are now. Just memories."

"Please…don't throw us away. I still love you."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she clutched his hand tightly before letting go.

"I need to move forward. And so should you."

They cried quietly beneath the softly falling snow, the world around them glowing like a field of diamonds in the pale winter light.

—

Wind howled outside after midnight. Andrea had already gone to bed, leaving Twyla in eerie silence. After a hot bath, she padded downstairs in her robe to get a glass of water.

She wasn't expecting Carter.

He emerged from the shadows and wrapped his arms around her. The stench of alcohol was heavy.

"Carter! Let go—mmph!"

He forced a kiss. She pushed him back, but his grip only tightened.

"Andrea! Andrea!!" she screamed.

No response.

She grabbed the nearest thing—a water bottle—and smacked it against his head. He staggered, just enough for her to bolt. She made it to the living room, lunging toward the door—but he caught her, lifted her off her feet, and flung her onto the sofa. Her head cracked against the armrest, the pain blinding. Carter climbed over her, yanking at her clothes.

She scratched him, nails raking his cheek. He snarled, slapped her, splitting her lip.

"Help! Andrea! Please!" she cried, broken and breathless, pinned and powerless.

Then—

A blur. A crash. Carter collapsed.

Calian.

His face twisted with fury as he drove Carter back, fists flying. Andrea's screams echoed down the stairs.

"Stop! Calian! Carter! Please!" she cried.

The chaos ended in a still, violent silence. Calian stood, fists bloodied, shoulders heaving. Carter lay dazed, barely moving. Andrea rushed forward but stopped when Calian turned on her with a thunderous glare.

"Didn't you hear her?!" he bellowed.

Andrea paled, trembling. "No… I didn't…"

Liar.

Andrea reached to help Twyla, about to give her a robe, but Calian blocked her with a cold glare. He pulled off his own jacket, wrapped it around Twyla's shoulders, then lifted her into his arms.

At the door, he looked back at Andrea.

"We're done."

"Calian! No! Please!" Andrea sobbed.

But he was already walking into the storm, Twyla safe in his arms.