The next few days passed in a blur of routine and silence. The snow lingered, clinging stubbornly to the rooftops and tree branches, as though the town itself was frozen in time.
For Nate, the moments spent with Lia during the snowstorm replayed in his mind with surprising clarity. Her laughter, the way her cheeks turned pink from the cold, the sparkle in her eyes as she flung that first snowball—they lingered like an echo he couldn't quite shake.
But he wasn't sure if he wanted to.
It was Lia, of course, who broke the fragile quiet between them. She showed up at his door late one evening, the hem of her coat dusted with snow and a sheepish smile tugging at her lips.
"I brought wine," she announced, holding up a bottle like a peace offering.
Nate raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to make me an alcoholic now?"
"Hardly," she replied, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I figured you could use some company. And I could use someone to share this with before I drink the whole thing myself."
"You're relentless," he muttered, though he didn't stop her as she made herself at home.
They sat on the couch, the wine bottle between them, their glasses half-full. The room was warm and dimly lit, the soft hum of the heater the only sound as they drank in companionable silence.
"So," Lia said eventually, breaking the quiet, "what's the deal with your paintings?"
Nate glanced at her, his expression guarded. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you're good. Like, really good. So why are they all just... sitting here?" She gestured toward the small stack of canvases leaning against the wall. "Why aren't you showing them to people? Selling them? Doing something with them?"
He looked away, his jaw tightening. "It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated," she said, her tone teasing but not unkind. "But seriously, Nate. These are incredible. You could—"
"I don't paint for other people," he interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. "I don't care about showing them off or selling them. I do it because it's the only thing that keeps me sane."
Lia blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity in his tone. "Okay," she said softly. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he said quickly, cutting her off again. He took a long sip of wine, his gaze fixed on the floor.
The silence that followed was heavier this time, the weight of his words settling between them.
After a few moments, Lia set her glass down and leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.
"You know," she began, her voice tentative, "I used to be like that, too. So focused on just surviving that I forgot how to live. My work was everything. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing I thought I was good at. But then..."
She hesitated, her fingers twisting together.
"Then what?" Nate prompted, his curiosity piqued despite himself.
"Then I burned out," she admitted. "Hard. I walked away from everything—my job, my friends, my life in the city. I thought I'd find myself again if I just... started over. But it turns out, you can't outrun yourself. Wherever you go, there you are."
Her laugh was self-deprecating, but her eyes were filled with an honesty that cut through Nate's defenses.
"I guess what I'm trying to say," she continued, "is that you don't have to do this alone. Whatever it is you're holding onto, whatever's keeping you stuck—you don't have to carry it by yourself."
Nate didn't reply right away. Her words hit closer to home than he cared to admit, but letting someone in, even someone like Lia, felt like a risk he wasn't sure he could take.
"I'll think about it," he said finally, his voice low.
Lia smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's all I ask."
The rest of the evening passed more quietly, their conversation shifting to lighter topics—childhood stories, favorite movies, and a surprisingly heated debate over the best way to make grilled cheese.
By the time Lia left, the snow had started falling again, blanketing the world in a fresh layer of white.
"Goodnight, Nate," she said, her voice soft as she stepped out onto the porch.
"Goodnight, Lia," he replied, watching as she disappeared into the swirling snow.
That night, Nate couldn't sleep. He lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling as Lia's words replayed in his mind.
You don't have to carry it by yourself.
The truth was, he didn't know how to let go. He'd spent so long building walls around himself, convinced that shutting the world out was the only way to keep the pain at bay.
But now, for the first time in years, he was starting to wonder if those walls were doing more harm than good.
And that thought scared him more than anything.