The Geometry of Getting Lost

I told him the city was too loud, but really, I just hated how his silence sounded like a question mark. So here we are, miles away from the concrete suffocation he loves so much. The air is sharp enough to cut skin, stinging my lungs with every breath.

Sitting on this frozen log feels safer than sitting in that velvet couch back home. At least the ice doesn't pretend it wants something more from me. I watch her—my reflection—or maybe just a stranger wearing my face, staring out at those jagged blue mountains.

He says we came here to find ourselves. Bullshit. We're just running away in matching wool sweaters because winter is the only excuse strong enough to justify ignoring each other's texts for three days straight. The cold keeps things simple: stay warm or freeze, love him or lose him.

The water looks like liquid glass, unbreakable until you try to touch it and rip a hole in reality. I'm wearing red because he said it made me look alive; maybe he's finally learning that softness doesn't mean weakness. If the ice under this log cracks tonight at least we'll both be wet.

Editor: Hedgehog