Snowbound Hearts: Forever After

The snowstorm swept into town quietly this time, soft and heavy, blanketing everything in silence. From his bedroom window, Sam watched the world vanish beneath thick layers of white. The streetlights flickered faintly, their glow blurred by the falling snow. It wasn’t like the storms he remembered. This one felt calm. Final.

Sixteen now, Sam was taller, broader, sharper in ways that made him feel like a stranger to himself. But the ache in his chest hadn’t changed. It had been two years since Jake left—since he was truly gone—and yet, Jake still lived in the spaces between Sam’s thoughts.

The scarf hung over the back of his chair, frayed and stiff with time. Sam hadn’t touched it in months, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

His gaze drifted back to the window. The yard outside was untouched, the snow pristine. He didn’t feel the urge to build a snowman this time. Instead, he sat down, gripping the scarf tightly in his hands.

“Jake,” he whispered into the stillness. He didn’t expect an answer. He hadn’t for a long time. But tonight, something about the storm made him hope.

The dream began the way it always did, quiet and endless. Sam stood in the middle of a vast, glowing snowfield, the air shimmering with an ethereal light. Everything felt suspended, as though the world was holding its breath.

Then he saw him.

Jake stood a few yards away, older now, his dark hair tousled by an unseen wind. His jacket was zipped up to his chin, and his boots were dusted with frost. He looked solid, more real than he ever had in these dreams.

Sam’s breath caught.

“Jake?”

Jake smiled, soft and crooked. “Hey, Sammy.”

The sound of his voice shattered something inside Sam. Before he could think, he was running, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Jake didn’t move; he just stood there, waiting. When Sam reached him, he grabbed Jake by the jacket and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re here,” Sam whispered, his voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

Jake held him for a long moment before pulling back, his hands resting on Sam’s shoulders. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Sam’s grip tightened. “Why do you keep leaving?”

Jake’s smile faltered, and he looked down at the snow. “Sam…”

“No.” Sam’s voice rose, his chest heaving. “You don’t get to just show up and act like it’s fine. You left. Do you even care what that did to me?”

Jake’s shoulders tensed, and when he looked up, his eyes were heavy with something Sam didn’t want to name. “Yeah. I care. I always cared.”

“Then why?” Sam’s voice cracked, tears brimming in his eyes. “Why did you leave?”

Jake exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Because I couldn’t stay. The weight… it was too much.”

Sam froze, his heart pounding. “What are you talking about?”

Jake’s gaze softened, filled with quiet sadness. “You always saw me as someone who could hold everything together. But I wasn’t. I was barely holding myself together.”

“That’s not true,” Sam said, his voice shaking. “You could’ve told me. I would’ve helped you.”

Jake smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You did help me. More than you know. You were the reason I held on as long as I did. But some of us… we just can’t wait for the weight to lift.”

Sam’s knees threatened to buckle. He stumbled back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “You’re saying… you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“No.” Jake stepped forward, his voice firm. “It was never your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Then why didn’t you stay?” Sam’s tears spilled over, hot against his frozen cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jake reached out, brushing a tear from Sam’s face. “Because I didn’t want you to carry my pain. You deserved more than that.”

Sam shook his head, his sobs breaking free. “I wasn’t enough, was I?”

Jake’s hand lingered on Sam’s cheek, his voice breaking. “You were more than enough. But I wasn’t.”

They stood in silence for a long time, the snow falling softly around them. Finally, Jake gave a small, shaky laugh.

“Do you still love me?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Sam’s chest tightened. He couldn’t bring himself to look away. “Of course I do.”

Jake’s smile softened, though his eyes remained heavy. “I know. And I want you to keep loving, Sam. You don’t have to stop. Just… don’t stop living, too.”

Sam swallowed hard, the tears coming faster now. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Jake stepped closer, pulling Sam into a hug. “You already are,” he whispered.

The snow around them shimmered, the dream shifting. Jake pulled back, brushing Sam’s hair from his face.

“Let’s build one,” Jake said suddenly.

“What?” Sam asked, confused.

“A snowman,” Jake said, his grin returning faintly. “One last time.”

Sam hesitated, but when Jake crouched down to gather snow, he followed. They worked in silence, their movements slow and deliberate. When they finished, two snowmen stood side by side, their scarves intertwined in a loose knot. The scarves fluttered gently in the breeze, as though bound together by something unseen.

Jake stepped back, his form flickering like a flame. As he began to fade, the scarf around his neck fluttered loose, falling gently onto one of the snowmen.

“When you see them tomorrow, remember this: You don’t need me to stay to remember me. I’ll always be here, in the places you look for me.”

“Jake…” Sam whispered.

But Jake was gone.

Sam woke to the pale light of dawn streaming through his window. For a moment, he lay there, his chest aching with a strange mix of grief and peace.

He got up slowly, pulling the curtain aside.

In the yard stood two snowmen, their scarves knotted together, leaning into each other like old friends. The scarves fluttered lightly in the wind, just as Jake’s had.

Sam stared at them for a long time, his breath fogging the glass. A thought crossed his mind, quiet but certain: They were still here. Just like Jake said they would be. Proof that love doesn’t disappear, even when people do.

He reached for the scarf draped over his chair, wrapping it tightly around his neck. The fabric was warm against his skin, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and cold air—the scent of Jake.

“Goodbye, Jake,” he whispered softly. His breath lingered on the glass, a faint mist against the morning light.

For the first time in years, the ache in his chest felt lighter. Not gone, but lighter. Jake was gone. But not really.

Some connections never fade.

The End.