It was a cold night at the Antarctic Circle. Julie and her 5-year-old son, Lopas, had decided to embark on a trip to Antarctica — a place as far removed from her current life as humanly possible. Julie had recently broken up with her husband, Jack, and the emotional weight of that decision still pressed on her like ice against skin.
Everyone in their small rural South American village had their theories. Some whispered that Jack had gone mad; others blamed Julie’s stubbornness. But nobody really knew. The constant scrutiny, the neighbors’ endless questions, and the loneliness of shared silence were too much to bear. She needed to disappear — if not from the world, at least from their world.
And so, in a move that felt both wild and liberating, Julie signed up for a cruise to the southernmost tip of the earth.
After a five-day voyage from the southern point of South America, Julie and her son finally arrived in Antarctica — the white continent. It was December. While the rest of the world prepared for cold and festivities, this part of the globe welcomed its surreal, sunlit summer. The snow shimmered even at midnight, and the wind howled like a forgotten spirit.
Julie wasn’t alone. The cruise had brought along 430 passengers from different countries, cultures, and stories. Some were scientists. Others, like her, were just escapees — people fleeing routines, relationships, or reality.
The decision to travel had been rushed. She had packed her bags with little thought, dragging Lopas along not just as her son but as her emotional anchor. Her life back home felt fragmented — and she thought perhaps Antarctica, untouched and raw, would stitch her back together.
The first day had been long and draining. Camp setup, safety drills, and a six-hour orientation party filled with laughter and foreign languages consumed her remaining energy. By the time she zipped up the tent and tucked Lopas in, she was exhausted. The stillness of the camp, surrounded by endless white silence, was oddly comforting.
Around 2 a.m., the temperature inside their tent dropped sharply. Julie woke with a jolt, her breath fogging the air. She reached for Lopas and wrapped him tighter in his thermal blanket. Concerned, she stepped outside to see what was happening.
Chaos.
People were shouting, scrambling across the snow. Some were barefoot. Others cried into their radios. A camp staffer ran past yelling something in Japanese. Julie’s heart pounded.
Two rumors spread like frostbite — fast and irreversible.
One: a polar bear had entered the perimeter.
Two: the power grid had failed, plunging the entire camp into a deep freeze.
Holding Lopas close, Julie ran. The cold seared her lungs. Her boots crunched against the snow. Panic clouded her thoughts.
And then, through the swirling snow and mist, a figure appeared.
Massive. Towering. Nearly eight feet tall.
A polar bear.
Julie’s blood turned to ice. She froze in her tracks. Every instinct screamed to flee, but her body wouldn’t move. She knew — polar bears didn’t exist at the South Pole. They lived in the Arctic. And yet, one now stood right before her.
Without thinking, she dropped to the ground and played dead, shielding Lopas with her arm. Her entire body trembled — from cold and fear — as the bear lumbered toward her. Its heavy breath hovered inches from her face.
Then came a whisper.
“I’m so sorry, babe.”
Her eyes snapped open.
It wasn’t a bear.
It was Jack.
Julie sat upright, gasping in bed. Sweat mixed with the chill in her room. She reached out blindly — the blankets were real. The darkness was familiar.
She was home. In South America.
The thermostat. She hadn’t turned it on. The freezing room had pulled her into a lucid, cinematic nightmare.
Beside her, Jack stood holding a drowsy Lopas, gently swaying him back to sleep. His face — half in shadow — looked worried, apologetic, tired.
They had fought three hours ago. Jack had asked for money to fund a small restaurant — his dream after walking away from the tech job that had been consuming him. The stress, he said, was killing him. He wanted peace, purpose, simplicity.
Julie had refused. She couldn’t bring herself to give up her savings — money she had worked hard for. In her mind, it was hers.
As Jack walked away to sleep in the guest room, he muttered under his breath — something he hadn’t meant for her to hear:
“I wish I was born in Antarctica… far away from everyone. I couldn't 'bare' your selfishness”
She wasn’t supposed to hear it as the mind converted 'bare' to 'bear'.
And that sentence had wormed its way into her subconscious, painting a brutal nightmare to mirror her emotional distance. Her mind turned his loneliness into an icy continent. His words became a roaring storm. And his pain, a phantom polar bear.
Now, fully awake, staring at the man she once called hers, she finally understood.
She had been protecting her bank balance while he was trying to protect his soul.
Her eyes welled up.
“How much do you need from my savings,” she whispered. Then corrected herself, voice shaking, “Sorry… our savings… to start the restaurant?”
Jack blinked. Then slowly smiled.
And for the first time in months, the room felt warm again.
