cold

did i make a mistake?

Days, months, years. I grew accustomed to the snowflakes, to the bitter breeze that filled the air outside.

Still, I found ways to carve out warmth in the cold—blowing hot air onto windows, sketching shapes that melted in moments, sharing laughs as if the crispness of the air couldn’t reach us.

Eventually, they chose their own path—or received the invitation, the chance to decide if they were ready for change.

I never thought I would know what it felt like to step into the scenes I had only watched through glass.

Then, unexpectedly, I got my first taste of fire. Someone said, “You have a call waiting for you inside.” A call? Who could it be?

I watched my footsteps imprint an unfamiliar path. Where would it lead?

Was this it?

I was given a name, a few images, and nothing more. I didn’t know what to expect.

My mind whispered, “This is just a passing conversation. It will end in minutes.”

But the minutes kept stretching.

I found myself smiling quietly, as if a thin sun had broken through a winter cloud.

It felt foreign.

I didn’t recognize who I was.

Part of me reveled in it, while the other half trembled against the heat.

I couldn’t let myself fall—no one would catch me.

And yet, I stayed on the call.

Something in their voice was electric, like fire against frost.

They radiated warmth I had never known. I felt my temperature rise, the embers brushing my skin, and for a moment, I forgot what it was to have fingers frozen to bone.

I began to soften.

I could hear it in my voice.

I allowed myself to enjoy it.

When the call ended, I stepped back outside. The cold kissed my cheeks, crisp and honest. But I carried a piece of fire in my pocket—a coal I could squeeze and warm my hands with until the next call.

Each time felt different.

Had I found the one? The thought echoed like frost cracking underfoot.

I could finally drop my shoulders and breathe easier. Even the heavier moments seemed lighter, synchronized—small sparks from the universe, blessings pressed into the frost.

But then the cold returned. Their voice carried the weight of winter storms they refused to escape. I gave them space to speak, offering warm words against the chill, afraid they would freeze beneath it.

They said not to worry, to focus on me.

But the worry snowballed, an avalanche I couldn’t stop.

Tears fell, slow as icicles melting.

Why does it ache to know someone is freezing and I can’t be the warmth they need?

A misalignment.

Perhaps we weren’t as aligned as I thought.

Maybe I needed to let go of the warmth and retreat to what I knew—the frost, the snow, the edges I could navigate without fear.

But instead, I told them I loved them.

A first.

More tears, the cold and the fire tangling. Afraid I had become what I hadn’t wanted—someone who loves a fire that won’t touch the frozen ground, someone who reaches into snow and finds only more cold.

I am holding out, hoping the warmth returns.

Yet I imagine the winter breeze—snowflakes brushing my face, snowballs thrown from point A to point B—and I wonder if I am meant only for frost.

Perhaps I mistook comfort for fire, and fire for comfort.

And yet I do not want to leave.

I stand between warmth and cold, fire and frost, desire and fear.

I am torn.