The Weight of Snowfall

The city breathes a frosted sigh against the glass, doesn’t it?
Each snowflake, a silent echo of forgotten things. He says I have winter in my eyes—a coolness that belies the warmth within.
I used to chase after heat, you see. Grand gestures, fiery declarations… they always dissolved into ash.
Then he arrived, quiet as snowfall itself, offering not blaze but a steady ember. A shared silence over coffee, the brush of gloved hands reaching for the same book…
He doesn't try to melt the frost, only offers me a thicker coat, a warmer scarf. And in that gentle understanding, I find myself thawing.
I trace the condensation on the window with my fingertip, watching it blur the streetlights into hazy halos. Perhaps warmth isn’t about burning bright, but finding someone who knows how to hold your light without scorching.

Editor: Floating Muse