Jason walked alone beneath the silent snowfall, his boots crunching lightly with each step. The cigarette between his fingers glowed like a firefly against the white haze, the smoke curling up and disappearing into the gray evening. He didn't look back. He never did.
Not really.
He'd felt Andrew's eyes on him the whole time — that kind of gaze people pretend isn't there. Quiet. Unforgiving. Like a mirror you don't want to look into. But Jason was used to it. Jealousy, mistrust, judgment. It clung to him the way snow clung to branches. Inevitable.
But Emma...
Emma had laughed.
That was enough.
He didn't know what he wanted from her. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe he just liked the way her voice rose and fell like music, the way she listened like no one ever had. Or maybe it was the way she didn't flinch when he said the wrong thing — when he tested the air between them like something fragile.
He exhaled, watching his breath dissolve into the cold.
Jason wasn't the type to stay anywhere long. The towns blurred together. Faces changed. He'd grown used to detachment, trained himself to feel nothing that couldn't be burned away in a bottle or a bed. But this place — this old town with its iron gates and frost-covered eaves — had something different.
Or maybe it was her.
He turned down a narrow alley that led to a set of stone steps — the kind that led to nowhere useful. He sat, brushing snow off the edge before settling down. He reached for the flask tucked in his coat. One swig, then another.
Warmth spread through his chest, but it didn't soften anything.
He thought of the way Emma smiled at Andrew. The kind of smile that didn't ask for anything. That was dangerous. Dangerous, because it meant something deep. The kind of love Jason had never known.
He closed his eyes, picturing her face beneath the bookstore light. Not the way she looked at him — no, the way she looked at Andrew when she thought no one noticed.
Jason had noticed.
He always noticed.
That was the curse of his charm: seeing too clearly and feeling too little.
He lit another cigarette, slower this time, letting the silence fill him. Snowflakes caught on his lashes. The whole world felt muted, as though time had slowed to let him think — something he usually tried to avoid.
What was he doing here, really?
Flirting with a girl who already had a silent lover, stirring a storm just to see what would fall. He knew how this would end. He always did. He'd walk away. She'd stay. Andrew would hover like a ghost until either he gave up or she woke up.
But still, he stayed.
Jason didn't believe in fate. But he did believe in moments — the way they sometimes blinked into existence, glittering like stars before vanishing. He collected them. That was his addiction. Not the drink, not the attention — the moments.
And Emma...
She was a moment he didn't want to let go.
He stood up, brushing snow from his coat, eyes fixed on the distance. Somewhere back there, the bookstore still glowed like a hearth. He imagined them walking together, Emma and Andrew, not speaking. Maybe Andrew was still wearing that tight little smile — the one that didn't fool anyone. Jason hated that smile.
But he understood it.
He walked again, passing shuttered cafés and candlelit windows. The town had an old sadness to it — the kind you could almost hear if you stood still long enough. He liked that. Sadness was honest.
Jason pulled his scarf higher. The snow was falling heavier now, soft flakes layering the rooftops, erasing the footsteps behind him. He liked that, too.
Clean slates.
He stopped outside the chapel, its doors closed, stained glass dim in the evening light. He remembered churches from his childhood — the echo of boots on stone, the way grown-ups whispered like God might overhear something unworthy. He'd never felt holy in places like this.
But tonight, it felt almost comforting.
He leaned against the stone wall and watched the world move around him. The snow. The wind. Somewhere, faint laughter. Somewhere, a piano.
He wondered if Emma was home now, still thinking about the poem he'd read.
He wasn't pretending. Not entirely. He liked poetry. Not for the romance, but for the ache. For the way it said what people never did.
That's what drew him to her. Emma wasn't loud. But she noticed things — the way he liked his coffee, the way his hands fidgeted when he lied, the way he sometimes stared too long at nothing. She saw it, but she didn't press. She let him be.
That was rare.
Too rare.
Jason sighed and pulled out the dog-eared book he'd stolen from the shop — not for the thrill, but for the words inside. He turned to a random page:
"You left, and I remained —
not as one wounded,
but as one who learned
how silence is a kind of goodbye."
He smirked. Too on the nose.
But true.
He knew he'd leave, eventually. He always did. But something in him hoped Emma might be different. Not enough to change him — just enough to make staying feel less like a trap.
He flipped the book shut and tucked it away. Enough feelings for one night. He started walking again, hands deep in his pockets, smoke trailing behind him like a ghost.
He passed Andrew's house on the way.
The windows were dark. No movement inside. Jason paused.
He imagined knocking. Just once. Saying something cruel or clever. Just to see what Andrew would do. But he didn't. There was no point. Jason had already won — and he hadn't even tried.
But winning didn't feel good tonight.
Not when the prize wasn't his to begin with.
He kept walking.
The snowfall swallowed his footsteps.
And behind him, somewhere far away, the bookstore lights finally dimmed.