By winter, the town had grown quieter.
Not empty. Just subdued. The cicadas were gone, replaced by sounds that felt sharper in the cold air—footsteps, doors closing, the distant call of a train horn carried farther than it should have. Jackets appeared gradually, first in the mornings, then all day. Breath lingered faintly when we spoke outside.
A few months had passed.
Not enough to call it a change.
Enough to notice one.
We didn't meet as often anymore.
There was no clear reason for it. Our schedules had shifted again—club hours changed, extra classes added, small responsibilities piling up quietly. Some days we exchanged messages about meeting later and then forgot to follow up. Other days we both remembered, but one of us was already too tired by the time evening came.
When we did see each other, it felt slightly borrowed.
Like time had been taken from somewhere else and placed carefully between us.
One afternoon, I waited near the station longer than I intended to. The sky had already begun to darken, and the lights along the platform cast uneven shadows across the ground. I checked my phone more often than necessary.
She arrived eventually, breath visible in the cold air, her hair tucked into her coat.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I got held up."
"It's okay," I replied, automatically.
We stood near the vending machines, hands tucked into pockets, the familiar hum filling the silence. She bought a drink, pressed the can into her palms to warm her hands.
"You're cold," I said.
She nodded. "I forgot my gloves."
"You always forget them."
"I always think I won't need them."
I almost smiled. Almost.
We talked about school at first. About assignments, upcoming tests, things that felt heavier now than they had in autumn. She spoke quickly, like she was trying to fit everything into the time we had.
I listened, but part of my attention stayed fixed on the platform clock.
I didn't remember when I'd started doing that.
At some point, the conversation slowed. Words began to feel less necessary. She stared down the tracks, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
"Winter feels shorter when you're busy," she said.
"Or longer," I said. "Depends on what you're waiting for."
She glanced at me, then looked away. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're already thinking about later."
I didn't know how to answer that.
A train passed through, loud and close, cutting us off from the rest of the station for a moment. When it was gone, the space felt emptier than before.
"I can't stay long today," she said, almost apologetically.
"Oh."
She hesitated. "Just for a bit."
"That's fine."
And it was. I meant it.
We walked part of the way together, our footsteps out of sync on the pavement. The streetlights cast long shadows, stretching ahead of us, overlapping and separating again as we moved.
She adjusted her bag strap, then slowed.
"This is where I turn," she said.
"Already?"
She nodded. "I promised I'd be home early."
"Right."
She looked at me like she wanted to say something else. Or maybe I imagined it again.
"Text me when you get home," I said.
She smiled faintly. "You're the one who's closer."
"I know."
"Then I'll text you when you get home," she said, like it was a compromise.
She turned and walked away, her figure growing smaller quickly in the dim light.
I stood there longer than I needed to.
The walk home felt quieter without her beside me. I noticed things I hadn't before—the sound of my own steps, the cold settling deeper as the night went on, the way the street felt wider than usual.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
Did you get home?
I typed a reply and erased it twice before sending something simple.
Yeah. You?
The reply came a few minutes later.
Just reached.
That was it.
I set my phone down and stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of a train passing through the town. I wondered when our conversations had started ending like this—brief, sufficient, incomplete.
School days continued.
Some weeks we saw each other only in passing. A wave in the hallway. A brief exchange near the lockers. Sometimes she was with other people, laughing, busy, moving quickly. Sometimes I was.
We still shared a few after-school moments, but they felt rarer now, easier to miss.
Once, while passing by the art room, I caught a glimpse of her inside, sketchbook open, head bent low in concentration. I almost stopped. Almost called out.
I didn't.
I told myself she looked busy.
Winter deepened.
The sky darkened earlier. The town settled into a steady routine that left little room for lingering. Days ended cleanly now, without the long, drawn-out evenings of summer.
I realized one evening, standing alone at the crossing, that I had stopped expecting her to be there.
Not because I didn't want her to be.
Because expectation had learned to be careful.
That was the quietest change of all.
Nothing had ended.
Nothing had been decided.
And yet, somewhere between autumn and winter, the space between us had learned how to exist on its own.