Skylight Over Svalbard
– Part II
Story Written & Told by
Astrid Bjørnsen, Ingrid Solberg,
& Freya Isvik
Visuals & Imagery Created by
Ida Fjellheim, Ella Skogen, Marte Østgaard,
Signe Løvik, & Scott Bryant
Intimate Scenes Coordinated by
Astrid Bjørnsen & Ingrid Solberg
With care and reverence, this story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the request of Astrid Bjørnsen,
Ingrid Solberg, and Freya Isvik.
The First Kiss
Astrid
The cabin was quiet, the kind of silence that came after a long day in the cold. The fire crackled softly, its warmth chasing away the chill that had seeped into my bones. A pot of reindeer stew simmered on the stove, filling the air with the rich aroma of juniper and thyme—a fleeting reminder of the season’s abundance.
I leaned back in my chair, watching Ingrid out of the corner of my eye. She fiddled with her scarf, her fingers moving in small, nervous gestures. Outside, the polar night stretched on endlessly, but in here, the glow of the fire and the scent of the stew made the dark feel less consuming.
She’d held up well today. Better than I expected.
“You did good,” I said finally, my voice breaking the quiet.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“Out there,” I clarified, nodding toward the door. “You listened. That’s more than most.”
She smiled faintly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “High praise coming from you.”
I didn’t respond, but her words lingered in the air between us, soft and almost teasing.
Ingrid
Astrid’s words were simple, almost matter-of-fact, but they warmed me in a way I didn’t expect. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear them—needed to know I wasn’t just fumbling my way through this.
I stood and walked to the window, my footsteps light on the wooden floor. The frost on the glass caught the firelight, casting delicate shadows across the cabin. I stared outside, at the faint outline of the mountains and the stillness of the snow-covered world.
“It’s so still here,” I said after a moment, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like the whole world just stops.”
She didn’t respond right away, but I felt her watching me. Her gaze was steady, grounding. It made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to.
“It’s different,” I added, almost to myself. “I’ve lived in cities my whole life. Oslo, London. Even the quiet there isn’t really quiet. It hums with traffic, phones, people moving too fast. But here…” I trailed off, pressing my fingertips lightly to the frosted windowpane. “Here, it’s not just quiet—it’s like the land is holding its breath, waiting for you to notice it.” My voice softened as I added, “It’s alive, in a way I didn’t expect.”
Astrid
Ingrid’s words caught me off guard. Most people couldn’t see it—not the way this place lived and breathed, not the way it demanded more from you than you thought you had. But Ingrid… she did. Or at least, she wanted to.
“You don’t disappear,” I said finally, the words slipping out before I could think. “You just learn to be part of it.”
She turned to me then, her expression open and searching.
“You’re not like most people who come here,” I said before I could stop myself.
“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“They don’t stay. Most people come looking for something, but when they find it, they leave.”
“And you?” Her voice was quiet but insistent.
“I’m not looking for anything,” I replied simply.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes. “Maybe that’s why you’ve found it.”
Ingrid
Astrid’s words settled into the space between us, heavy and grounding. She didn’t look away, her pale eyes steady on mine, and for a moment, I wondered if she could see the way her presence made me feel less lost.
I reached out hesitantly, my fingers brushing hers lightly where they rested on the windowsill. She didn’t pull away.
Her lips brushed mine, tentative and soft, like a question waiting to be answered. The moment stretched, fragile and intimate. Outside, the wind shifted, and the cabin creaked softly, as though the Arctic itself exhaled in relief. The frost on the window caught the faintest glimmer of light from the aurora above—a quiet acknowledgment of something new. My breath mingled with hers, carrying the faint scent of firewood and stew.
Why did I do that?
The thought flickered briefly, but it was drowned out almost immediately by something deeper: Why does this feel right?
Her hand brushed mine again, steadying and grounding me in the moment. When she leaned back slightly, her eyes searched mine—not for reassurance, but for understanding, for something unspoken. Slowly, I let the hesitation melt away and leaned in again.
Astrid
The kiss deepened, deliberate and slow, like we were the only two people left in the world. Ingrid’s lips were warm, soft, and full of questions I didn’t know how to answer. But I didn’t pull away. I let the walls I’d built around myself crack, just slightly, letting her in.
Her hand was warm beneath mine, solid and steady, and I realized I didn’t want to move away. For so long, I’d told myself I didn’t need this—didn’t need anyone—but Ingrid made me question that. She made me wonder if staying guarded was worth what I’d been missing.
“You belong here,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her words hung in the air, wrapping around me like the warmth of the fire. I met her gaze, seeing the quiet certainty in her eyes, and for the first time, I let myself believe her.
I leaned closer, brushing my forehead lightly against hers. The kiss felt like a crack in the ice—a tiny fissure, letting warmth into spaces I’d kept frozen for too long.
Ingrid
When the kiss broke, neither of us moved far. Astrid’s forehead rested against mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Was that okay?” I asked softly, the words barely audible.
She nodded, her hand brushing mine again. “It was,” she said, her voice quiet but sure.
The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips, and I realized I’d never seen her look so unguarded. It made me want to stay, to see what else was behind those walls she’d let me glimpse.
The fire crackled softly in the background, but I barely noticed. The silence between us wasn’t heavy—it was shared, grounding, and full of possibilities I hadn’t dared to imagine.
Ingrid’s Decision
Ingrid
The email sat in my inbox, its subject line glaring like a challenge:
FINAL RESPONSE NEEDED: Research Team Lead Position.
Forty-eight hours. That’s how long Oslo had given me to decide. My inbox blinked with its usual urgency: Your research could change everything, Ms. Solberg. Once, I’d believed it. Now, the words felt hollow. I stared at the cabin walls, the faint hum of the fire steadying me more than any promise from the university. I thought of Astrid—how she moved through this place like it was a part of her, how she didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The cursor blinked back at me, unrelenting.
Change everything.
But maybe I already had.
It offered no accolades, no certainty — only honesty. But leaving meant giving up more than Oslo—it meant giving up the very life I’d been chasing. What would people think? My colleagues, my friends, my family? Years of expectations would crash down like avalanches of unanswered questions. Did I waste it all? Was this foolish?
Yet staying wasn’t simple either. The Arctic wasn’t forgiving, and neither was isolation. I would miss birthdays, late-night city walks, even the hum of life back home. My mother’s voice rang in my ears: “Why can’t you settle somewhere safe, somewhere close?” But here, with Astrid, I felt safer than anywhere else. Even when the ice cracked, even when the bear loomed, her steadiness reminded me there was a different kind of safety—the kind found in trust.
I stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as a memory surfaced.
The hum of lecture hall lights, the faint scent of markers on whiteboards, the clink of coffee mugs set down too loudly by latecomers. My hands trembled as I clicked through slides on Arctic ecology, the projector whirring behind me. In the front row, Professor Lunde sat smiling, steady and encouraging, her presence grounding me in a way that felt like an anchor in the storm.
“You’ve got something, Ingrid,” she had told me afterward, pressing a coffee into my hands. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
That moment had felt like the beginning of everything. But now, as I stared at the glowing screen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been leading me somewhere else.
Oslo loomed in my mind—the hum of trains, the glare of fluorescent lecture halls, the constant race to prove myself. But here, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt infinite.
It wasn’t waiting to be solved. It simply existed, and you adapted. It didn’t care if I stayed or left. But it had shown me something I hadn’t expected—a way of being that didn’t revolve around deadlines or accolades.
What would staying mean? A life measured not in accolades but in moments: the crackle of a fire, the first glow of sunrise, Astrid’s steady gaze. Could I trade ambition for peace, recognition for something quieter—but no less profound? The email still sat in my inbox, unanswered. Maybe I’d respond, or maybe I wouldn’t. But for the first time, I wasn’t in a rush to decide. The Arctic had taught me to wait, to listen—and that was enough for now.
My chest tightened as the cursor blinked in the email. Oslo felt like an old chapter, one I wasn’t sure I wanted to reread.
Astrid
The fire crackled softly, filling the cabin with a steady warmth. Outside, the wind howled, a low, mournful sound that made the silence inside feel even heavier. Ingrid sat by the fire, her laptop open, the blue glow of the screen reflecting on her face. She looked tense, her brow furrowed, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I leaned against the doorframe, snow still clinging to my coat.
“You’re thinking too hard,” I said, breaking the quiet.
Her head snapped up, startled. She quickly closed the laptop, like a child caught sneaking sweets.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice tight. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I shrugged, stepping into the room. “You didn’t wake me,” I said, glancing at the closed laptop. “Big decision?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, softer now. “But it’s more complicated than I thought.”
I didn’t push. If she wanted to tell me, she would. Instead, I crouched by the fire and added another log, watching as the flames licked at the fresh wood. The light flickered across the room, softening the sharp edges of her face.
Ingrid
I watched Astrid for a moment, her movements deliberate and unhurried, as if tending the fire was the only thing that mattered. She had a way of grounding everything—like she didn’t need to say much for her presence to fill the room.
“It’s a job,” I said finally, the words tumbling out. “In Oslo. Everything I’ve worked for.”
She didn’t look up, but I saw the faintest twitch of her brow. “Sounds like a good thing,” she said evenly.
“It is,” I replied, though the words felt hollow. “But…”
She turned her head slightly, waiting. I stared at the fire, the warmth on my face doing little to ease the cold knot in my chest.
“Back in Oslo, everything made sense,” I continued. “I used to measure success in deliverables: published papers, secured grants, packed lecture halls. I thought momentum meant meaning — that if I kept moving fast enough, I wouldn’t have to notice how exhausted I was becoming.. But out here…” My voice trailed off, my fingers tightening around the edge of my mug.
“Here, everything’s different,” I said, quieter now. “The land doesn’t fit into a schedule. It’s not waiting for you to figure it out. It just is.”
The words surprised me as I said them, as if they’d been sitting inside me all along, waiting to be spoken. I looked up at her then, needing to see if she understood.
Astrid
Ingrid met my gaze, her eyes searching mine for something I wasn’t sure I could give. “I didn’t know how much I needed that,” she said softly.
Her honesty caught me off guard. Most people came here with plans, with expectations, with the belief that they could mold this place to fit them. Ingrid wasn’t like that. She was learning to listen, to let this place shape her instead.
I sat back, letting her words settle into the room. “Sounds like you’re the one deciding what matters most,” I said after a moment.
Her lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “If I stay,” she said quietly, “what does that even look like?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. That wasn’t my decision to make.
“It looks like waking up to this,” I said, gesturing toward the window where the faint glow of the polar night still lingered. “It looks like finding your place here. And maybe it looks like not being alone in it.”
Ingrid
Astrid’s words landed heavier than she probably intended. Not being alone in it. I looked at her, at the way the firelight softened her usually guarded features. She wasn’t offering promises or guarantees, just possibilities.
“Maybe,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it does.”
Later, after she’d gone to bed, I stared at the email again. The plan I’d built for years felt smaller now, like it didn’t fit who I’d become. Oslo wasn’t the dream I thought it was—it was a life I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore.
What would staying mean? I didn’t have all the answers, but for the first time, that uncertainty didn’t feel like failure. It felt like freedom.
The First Sunrise
Astrid
The horizon glowed faintly, hesitant, like the sun was remembering how to rise after months of exile. It didn’t rush. Here, even the light took its time, stretching across the fjord in deliberate, golden waves.
I stood at the edge of the ice, my breath mingling with the wind. Beside me, Ingrid was silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She didn’t fill the quiet with questions or commentary. Instead, she just watched, letting the Arctic speak for itself.
Ingrid was beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine when the wind shifted. She hadn’t said much since we left the cabin, but her silence wasn’t empty—it felt deliberate, like she was letting the Arctic speak for her.
“Are you cold?” I asked, glancing at her.
She smiled faintly, her breath visible in the crisp air. “No.”
Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her coat, but her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the first edge of the sun peeked over the mountains.
“You always forget how quiet it is,” I said softly, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone curious but hushed.
“When the sun comes back,” I said, gesturing toward the light. “It’s never loud, but it always feels bigger than it is.”
She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I think I understand,” she said.
The light crept higher, spilling soft hues of blue and gold across the snow. It wasn’t just the return of the sun—it was a declaration, a reminder that even after the longest night, change was possible. The rays caught on the ice, scattering shimmering colors that reflected in her wide, unguarded eyes.
Ingrid
The light softened everything—the sharp edges of the mountains, the shadows on the snow, even Astrid’s usual guardedness. I glanced at her, watching how the glow painted her pale eyes, making them seem lighter, almost vulnerable. For the first time, she didn’t look like she was bracing against the world. She looked like she was part of it.
“You always forget how quiet it is,” she said, her voice low and steady.
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in me. “It’s not just quiet,” I said softly. “It’s alive.”
Her gaze shifted to me, and for the first time, I thought I saw something thawing behind her steady exterior—an openness, a willingness to share this place with me. And maybe, just maybe, with herself.
“When the sun comes back,” she said, her words deliberate. “It’s never loud, but it always feels bigger than it is.”
I turned back to the horizon, her words settling into me like the light itself.
“I think I understand,” I said quietly.
But it wasn’t just the sun. It was this place, this moment, and her. It was the way everything here felt deliberate and real, like it mattered in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
The light crept in slowly, softening the sharp edges of the world. The ice beneath us reflected the gold of the rising sun, its surface shifting with the faint groans of pressure and release. It wasn’t just a sunrise; it was a reminder of how this place moved, breathed, and endured. Ingrid stood beside me, silent but resolute, and I wondered if she felt it too—that sometimes, the cracks that let light in were also the ones that held everything together. I leaned into her slightly, letting the weight of her shoulder ground me. She didn’t move, but I felt her shift just enough to press back.
“I think I could stay,” I said softly, the words surprising even me.
Astrid looked at me then, her gaze steady and searching.
“For how long?” she asked, her tone careful but not dismissive.
I smiled faintly, glancing back at the horizon. “As long as the sun keeps coming back.”
Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but close enough. The Arctic didn’t promise permanence, but it promised cycles: light and dark, stillness and storms. Maybe that was enough for now. Together, we’d find out what came next.
She looked at me then, her gaze steady and searching.
“For how long?” she asked, her tone careful but not dismissive.
I smiled faintly, glancing back at the horizon. “For as long as it takes.”
Astrid
Her words hung in the cold air between us, quiet but solid. I wasn’t sure what they meant exactly, but I knew they weren’t empty.
I looked back at the horizon, the sun climbing higher now, its light stretching across the fjord. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the space around us, warm and persistent. Ingrid’s presence felt the same.
“So,” she said after a while, her tone light but teasing, “is this where I finally get the famous Astrid laugh?”
I turned to her, one eyebrow arched. “You’d have better luck finding another polar bear.”
She grinned, her cheeks still pink from the cold. “Noted. But don’t think I won’t keep trying.”
I didn’t answer, but the faintest twitch of a smile played on my lips, enough to make her laugh softly.
Her laughter wasn’t loud, but it carried warmth—like the sun, creeping back after months of darkness. For the first time, I felt it too. Maybe letting her in wasn’t a risk. Maybe it was a beginning.
Ingrid
The sun rose higher, its light spreading across the fjord, softening the sharpness of the Arctic. For the first time, it didn’t feel like the return of the sun—it felt like a promise.
I glanced at Astrid, her profile silhouetted against the growing light. The cabin, the emails, the deadlines—they felt far away now, like a dream I was waking up from. Here, with her, the Arctic didn’t just challenge me—it invited me to stay, to let it teach me, to build something new.
Her hand brushed mine, hesitant but steady, and I realized I didn’t want her to move away. Slowly, her fingers curled around mine, grounding us both.
“You’re really staying?” Astrid asked, her voice softer than the wind.
I squeezed her fingers gently, my breath misting in the cold.
“I am.”
Astrid wasn’t someone who shared easily—not stories, not warmth, not herself. Yet here she was, letting me in, piece by piece. I didn’t know what had made the difference—maybe it was when I stood so still on the ice, trusting her completely. Or maybe it was the way she saw strength where I only felt fear. In this place where survival left no room for softness, Astrid was letting me see hers.
I wasn’t just staying. Somehow, I was helping her stay, too.
The End
Reflections Under the Northern Lights
By Astrid Bjørnsen & Ingrid Solberg
Astrid: For a long time, I believed stories like ours belonged quietly to the snow and light of the fjords. But Ingrid showed me something about stories: they don’t just belong to the people who live them. They belong to those who listen, who carry them forward, and who find themselves in them.
Ingrid: Norway is a land of contrasts—endless night and endless day, fierce storms and perfect stillness. It teaches you to live with both, to find strength in the quiet and resilience in the chaos. That’s what this story is to us. It isn’t about drama or grand declarations. It’s about the small, steady moments that linger, shaping us in ways we don’t always notice right away.
Astrid: It’s about finding each other when we didn’t know we were lost. It’s about learning to listen—to the Arctic, to ourselves, and to each other. I think of the day the ice cracked beneath us, when everything else fell away except the sound of her voice and the way she trusted me—completely, unshaken.
Ingrid: For me, this story is a thank-you—to the land that taught me to listen, to the quiet that helped me grow, and to the woman who made me brave enough to embrace it all. I’ll never forget the sunrise we shared, the way it painted the fjord in light and cast shadows that felt like they belonged to another world entirely. It was quiet, yes, but it was also everything.
Astrid: And for me, it’s a reminder that even the most solitary of hearts can find a home in someone else.
Ingrid: And to those reading this, thank you for walking with us under the Arctic sky. In a land of endless contrasts—light and dark, silence and storms—it’s the connections we make that give meaning to the journey.
Astrid: Whether you’ve stood on an Arctic fjord or simply imagined it, thank you for listening. The light is always brighter when it’s shared.
Astrid and Ingrid: Here’s to the stories that bring us together and to the allies who make them heard. Tusen takk.
Scott Bryant 
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