I thought about you as it snowed on january nineteenth. I was in the car with my aunt and my mother on our way to pick up my father from work. We all wished he had just called out sick today. I’m writing in the past tense, but this is happening right now. It seems I’ve been living in the past for quite a while now, anyway. I thought of you and whether you were home safe, or walking on the streets thinking about what your life has become. I hoped you were just in your living room, watching a movie with your mother and sister, though. I wondered if you like the snow as a reason to stay in, or if you despise it as much as you do the cold. I wondered if it was inspiring for you or if your heart was shaking, too, because you were thinking of me. I wanted to call you to ask if you like the snow, but I didn’t, because I know I will be seeing you in a few days, anyway. We hadn’t spoken properly in a while, and it might have been weird to ask such a nondescript question. I wondered how you would pick up or if you would be happy to hear my voice. I reminisced on the time you told me it was beautiful.

I wondered if you were high or maybe just tired from work. I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel this way for someone again or if you were ever really planning to make me try. (I hoped you aren’t.) I figured I would listen to some sad music on the long ride back home to avoid calling you. I wondered why I wanted to so badly, when I knew it would not bring me any peace. Something about driving (or rather, getting driven) through the snow made me feel very alone. And something about that made me feel close to you. I wondered if maybe that is because you always made me feel lonely and I just never knew it. It was probably that; but what if it’s because there is something snowy about you, even though you’re a summer baby?

I realised my thoughts were starting to make less and less sense, and that I was hardly convincing my family that I was registering a single word of whatever they were saying to me. I am certain none of their chatter was of any importance. Small talk had become difficult ever since I realised I could not love you anymore. I realised this a few (long, dreadful) days ago, during one of the many hours you spent doing anything but responding to my messages. I had lost track of how many days had passed since you last cared to, and I avoided counting on my fingers to figure it out. I hoped you were figuring out what to do about your still-being-in-love-with-me. I bet you will end up avoiding it. I wished on every snowflake that there were absolutely anything left for either of us to do. I thought about you as it snowed on january nineteenth and I hoped, when it stopped, that I would too.