On the day of our departure, I waited under the clock tower, in accordance with our usual assignations. We decided to depart early in the morning, so there were only a few people, sparse, wandering around the plaza mindlessly, as if possessed by apparitions. With every footstep that drew close, the thought of seeing you would swell inside of me, and I’d turn my head in anticipation, greeted, but more so betrayed, by the sight of a stranger. Upon being deceived, I’d despise the poor stranger, knowing this response was fully unwarranted.

The morning was silent. As I heard the last flake of snow falling from the sky, you arrived.

I embraced the fact that the mittens I gifted you might have been too large, but how adorable they made you look! Your oversized duffle coat suited you too. This offset my guilt and I soon found myself in admiration. As I removed the flakes of snow from your burnished hair, your chin would recess into your scarf, hiding the coy smile I was so familiar with. For the muted landscape of winter, your round cheeks were the only source of an unplaceable, flushed pink.

We decided to take a walk before our departure, to reminisce, so to speak, for we were planning on a long journey. We stopped by the apex of the bridge in front of the sweets shop that was, by then, a place of nostalgia. The river beneath us was sparse with fish that coalesced into indistinguishable beams of silver. Staring into the inexorable river and looking somewhat dejected (I had dismissed this at the time; I know better now), you took your hand out of your mittens and gripped my hand, afraid of falling in, as it were. Your hands were cold. After a few moments, you looked up, as if you had stilled something within you, and said, shall we?

I didn’t know how to get to the edge of the land, but you seemed to be perfectly aware, so I followed. Eventually, we made our way to the outskirts of town and arrived at an exit. The inventor of time—and therefore, defeat and nihilism—guarded the gate from which we were to leave. As they witnessed our approach, they seemed to remain in sterile countenance, presumably expecting our arrival, and their stern, steadfast features had impressed upon me an impossible, obstinate disposition, but they idly let us through with little questioning, and I found this circumstance most strange. This made me question why the gate was so heavily guarded in the first place, but never mind that. There were more important things, for I was with you.

The landscape outside our town was barren and dreary. I’d kill the scenery, just for you, but in its bleached emptiness, there was nothing left to kill. That is, the conifers were barbed and the sky was ash; the air was numbing and the clouds were murky shards of glass. But between these vulgar sights, a clear path was presented to us, one which we decided to follow. The hike was arduous, and as we got increasingly closer to our destination, I noticed lumps, some distance from the path, covered with snow. Now, I haven’t the slightest clue why I thought you might be acquainted with these mysterious lumps, but I asked you anyway. You halted our trek. Our hands were still together. After deliberating for a moment, you proceeded to explain:

“They’re people. That’s how some people end.” After thinking for a little longer, you added, “_fortunate_ people, that is.”

Then, I didn’t understand a single thing you said, and only slightly do now, so I pursued further. “Fortunate people?”

You nodded. Your voice took on an unprecedented tone, as if standing at the edge of a promontory. “Sometimes, two people come here because there’s nowhere else to go. After carefully picking a spot to lie down, while holding each other, they puncture themselves to let out the warmth underneath. They bleed entire pools—and this is very hard thing, not unlike killing yourself. In the end, they look into each other, and finally, yet for the first time, realize true warmth. As they drift off into sleep, leaving nothing but a shell, the winter freezes them together, forever.”

I suppose this was some sort of confession, for your face took on the veneer of apprehension; your eyes went dark, akin to the corner of some room wherein you shivered—alone. I was too young to know what to do. But perhaps this is an excuse that I am only making now to condone my adolescent negligence. I followed you in silence, feigning comprehension. For I was too young (and I still am). How could I possibly understand the complexities of your pain? How could I possibly reach you in the torturous places you visited, after which you’d come back, bruised and limp? Were there words you needed? An embrace? A gaze? How could I be entrusted with something so beautiful, yet simultaneously, so fragile?

When we finally arrived at the cabin beneath sheets of snow, you entered as if you belonged to it. Hesitantly, I followed. In retrospect, I never thought of questioning where this cabin had come from, or if it even belonged to you, and at the time, I only found it sensible that a cabin had materialized at that particular location.

The interior of the cabin had been filled with books: our favorites. Between the stacks of books, small windows peered into the cold, blurry world outside. The photographs that adorned the walls were only partially exposed, obscure to the point where one might as well be blind. But if you took some steps back, a vague outline would surface, and though it could have been anything, I saw, or very possibly hallucinated, you and I.

The only source of warmth radiated from the fireplace in the center of the cabin, which seemed to have already been lit when we arrived. I didn’t think to question this, and thought it perfectly natural that everything was prepared for our stay. After dispersing our possessions throughout the cabin, you stood at the center of the room, hypnotized by the fire. Had you been less self-aware, I might have expressed concern, but presently, you turned around and flashed a ruse of a smile that had deceived me then. While I was truly concerned, the ears that peeked out of your damp hair and your bare neck made me think of caressing your face and hair, afflicted with the most irrepressible desires. But I was afraid of repudiation, and it’s perceived vulgarity, so I withheld myself—barely.

After some days had passed, which we spent reading, taking walks, sleeping—thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, that is—one night, as we were clearing the dining table, the powerful winds of winter violently shook the glass panes of the windows, and to all appearances, shook the inside of you. Recessing into your chest, as it were, I held your limp body close, and you explained how the cabin would soon disintegrate and devolve back into the emptiness. Panic must have escaped my expression, as you were quick to reassure me that it could be prevented. To prevent it, you said, we would have to become shells, though in a distinctly different way from the invisible lumps we had encountered on our journey. Accordingly, I carried you to the bedroom, the darkest room, where a single beam of moonlight shone on the bed.

Motionless, in the silence of our nameless scars, you asked me to hold you close, very close, as if swallowing you into my chest. Then, you asked me to unravel the seams of my shell (this was the strangest thing, as I found the most peculiar aptitude for this; by then, I must have fallen to the hands of insanity), and I seeped out of the newfound crack lining my back. In the end, we left two empty shells, transfigured to an eternal state of being. By and by, the two distinct shells fused to form one obscure lump, producing a weak, irredeemable glow.

Last modified on 2026-02-22