Snowbound with you

The difference between us

Emma’s apartment felt impossibly quiet when she stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a space that smelled faintly of polished wood and the lingering trace of city air. She paused in the entryway, coat still on, boots clutched in one hand, and surveyed the familiar room. Everything looked exactly the same as it had before she left—the couch cushions neatly aligned, the coffee table devoid of clutter, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. It should have felt comforting.

Instead, it felt hollow.

She set her suitcase down gently and moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain to stare at the city below. Lights flickered along the streets, traffic moving in rhythmic streams. People hurried by, bundled in coats, each absorbed in their own lives, in their own noise. She watched the waves of movement and felt nothing, or at least nothing she could put into words.

The silence wasn’t empty—it was loud in its own way. It reminded her of the quiet after a storm, the kind where everything has survived, yet nothing is entirely the same. She had expected some relief upon returning home, some grounding in familiarity, but there was only this strange dissonance, the realization that the world had not paused for her holiday, for her escape, for what she had allowed herself to feel.

Emma set the curtain back into place and exhaled slowly, trying to shake the weight pressing down on her chest. She began unpacking with deliberate care. Each item folded, each piece of clothing placed back in its drawer, felt like a small act of reclaiming order. She moved through the motions mechanically at first, but her thoughts kept drifting, tethered to snow-covered mountains, to the quiet lodge, to Liam.

When she finally found the sweater she had borrowed from him—the one she had wrapped around herself on the coldest night—it sat in her hands, still warm with memory. She held it for a long moment before draping it over the back of a chair instead of folding it away. She wasn’t ready to put it away. Not yet.

Even as she unpacked, her phone lay heavy in her pocket. She hadn’t checked it properly since leaving the lodge. Now, with a quiet moment to herself, she pulled it out. Notifications flooded the screen in a way that made her stomach tighten—missed calls, emails stacked like tiny alarms, a message from her sister that made her heart lurch. Reality, insistent and unyielding, was back.

She stared at the first message from her sister:

“Are you safe? We’ve been worried.”

Emma took a long breath before responding.

“I’m okay. Just… snowed in longer than I expected.”

Her sister replied almost immediately.

“You sound different.”

Emma smiled faintly, brushing her fingers over the screen. “I feel different.”

It was true. She felt changed in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated. The holiday had not been just an escape—it had been a reckoning. Every moment with Liam, every shared glance, every silent understanding with Noah had chipped away at her defenses, leaving her more aware of what she wanted, of what she could allow herself to feel.

Her thoughts drifted to Liam as she stood by the window, staring out at the city lights. He was probably sitting at the kitchen table in his own home, quiet in the way that meant he was thinking, reflecting, adjusting to the absence she had left behind. The thought sent a small ache through her chest, a mix of longing and anticipation.

The day unfolded with the rhythm of work pulling her back into her previous life. Emails demanded attention, deadlines loomed like shadows, and meetings stretched endlessly across the screen. She moved through it all efficiently, smiling at colleagues, contributing ideas, and performing the Emma everyone expected. But beneath it, in the quiet moments between tasks, she felt the tug of distance, the reminder that some things had shifted irrevocably.

When the evening came, the city lights blurred through her window as she leaned against the railing of her balcony. The hum of traffic, distant sirens, and the occasional laughter from the street below felt different now—like a soundtrack to a life she was participating in, but not entirely living. She pulled her phone from her pocket, fingers hovering over Liam’s contact.

Finally, she dialed.

It rang once. Twice. Then his voice came, low and warm, filling the quiet apartment in a way that no city noise ever could.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied softly.

The first minutes passed without words. Neither of them needed to speak immediately. It was enough to hear each other’s voices, the slight rhythm, the presence conveyed through sound alone.

“I didn’t expect it to be this… quiet,” Emma finally admitted.

“Yes,” Liam said simply. “But I don’t regret it.”

Her chest warmed. She could hear the subtle inflection in his voice, the honesty, the steady calm that had been a refuge throughout the storm and beyond.

They began to exchange small details—Noah’s latest drawing, the weather, the mundane yet intimate observations of their separate days. Slowly, the conversation deepened, revealing not just surface events but glimpses of emotional reality: fears, doubts, hopes, and small victories. Each message, each word, was a bridge across the miles that separated them, fragile yet resilient.

Emma realized, with a mix of surprise and relief, that absence didn’t erase connection. It tested it. It demanded care and attention, yes—but it also allowed for understanding, patience, and a deliberate choice to maintain what mattered most.

The night stretched on. Emma stayed on the balcony, phone in hand, feeling both the distance and the closeness that now defined their relationship. Liam shared a story about a quiet moment with Noah, something that made her laugh softly. They spoke of nothing and everything at once.

And in that stillness, Emma understood something she hadn’t allowed herself to admit fully: love didn’t vanish when life resumed. Sometimes, it waited quietly, patiently, for the moment when both hearts were willing to meet it again, halfway.

She leaned back against the railing, letting the cool night air brush against her face. Somewhere far away, Liam was doing the same, and it didn’t matter that they were separated by streets, by miles, by schedules and obligations. What mattered was the commitment of presence, honesty, and the quiet bravery it took to nurture what had begun on snowy mountains far from the city.

Emma whispered into the phone, almost to herself: “We’ll figure this out.”

“Yes,” Liam said softly. “We will.”

For the first time since returning, she felt the hollow quiet in her apartment fill not with noise, not with work, not with obligation but with possibility. And that was enough. For now.