My memories have stopped at the edge of winter.

My memories are trapped in a frozen river.

Krystal stares silently out her bedroom window. Pristine layers of snow are draped over the city and the night is bright with reflected moonlight. She rests her forehead on the cool pane of glass and wonders why, despite the heavy sweater and crackling flames, she still feels the cold.

The ring is icy in her palm. She used to revel in its dull, golden shine, its weight comforting her whenever he was gone. It reminded her of stained glass and cherry blossoms, and the moment when he had first slipped it on her finger, five long years ago. Even now, she still remembers the warmth of his hand and the promise that fell from his smiling lips.

But promises are just words. Words are just sounds. Sounds can ring in the air but they, like everything else, eventually fade into silence.

***

Kai peers down at the stranger's crimson lips and hooded eyes and wonders why it took the sharp pain of fingernails against his skin to reclaim his attention. Sometime between undoing his tie and tumbling onto the bed, his mind had wandered off again. His breaths are strangely even when they finish and as he lies on his back, palm stretcheted towards the ceiling, he notes how heavy his hand is. Time had passed yet his memories still linger and despite having cast away the band around his finger, he can still feel its ghostly presence.

The sole purpose of his rendez-vous was to lose himself in the physical, to drown his thoughts in waves of detached passion. Yet, here he was, plagued by insomnia, still pondering about the past. Perhaps it was time he finally saw past the lie he had told himself, to realize that no matter who he lay beside, he was utterly alone.

My heart collapsed like an avalanche; I woke to a lightless night.

Snow-capped mountains can never melt, even with the rising sun.

Her world had been silent when it had fallen apart.

She remembers the soundless scream of agony drawn from her lips as she wondered how existence and non-existence could balance so precariously on the edge of a heartbeat? She remembers the quiet murmur of far-off voices, meaningless phrases like 'depression' and 'PDD'–as if words alone could describe the anguish, the emptiness and the conviction that what was stolen from her would never be returned. She remembers the whispered goodbye and the soft click of a closed door, muted sounds that told her he had left and would not come back.    

When she finally emerged from the depths of blue, her world was silent once more.

***

Some say that love is invincible, that once you find your other half, it can fix anything and everything with a wave of a magic wand. The truth is, love is a fragile flower that wilts without nurture. It may have the strength to weather a storm, but the wind will scatter its petals and bend its stem until it is reduced to a shadow of its former beauty.

He had watched the elements break her, had stared into her vacant eyes and had wrapped his arms around her shivering body. But even as he had held her, she continued to fall, slipping through his grasp like grains of sand. And as the weeks ebbed into months and she continued to gaze at a distant light he could not see, his hands soon became empty.

A better man might have chased after her, pulled her out of her misery, but he had always been a coward. His heart only had the capacity to love, not heal so he had run away from her shattered pieces because he could neither repair her nor bring himself to try. 

I stand on the cusp of autumn waiting for spring to arrive.

Ever since we parted ways, spring has never come again.

Some say having loved and loss is better than having never loved at all, but for her, nothing could ever fill the ragged hole that loss had left behind. It was a wound that could be torn open by a memory, a nightmare. On nights like these, she sits hunched over on her bed, arms around her stomach as she waits. Waits for the tears to dry. Waits for the images to subside. Waits for the loneliness to diminish to a dull, tolerable ache.

She remembers when her happiness could be measured in hours, days even. Remembers when it was a continuous line that approached infinity rather than short, stolen seconds that flickered out with a single gust of despair. They had smiled back then, real smiles untainted by the ever-present pain. Mischievous grins as they held each other beneath the tented bed sheets. Melded laughter as they spoke of ridiculous names and colorful spoons. Dreamy sighs as they thought of the sunlit future and a heartbeat that would soon match their own.

***

Spring.

The single syllable falls unconsciously from his tongue as he gazes out his office window. Cold, chrome skyscrapers stare back and for some reason, he finds comfort in their sterility. Even as the seasons change, they stand immovable and immutable. What has never lived can never die.

Their love had been, in a way, like spring–sweet and lovely and bursting with life. It had been born from clasped hands and whispered endearments under the moonlight, from gentle kisses and silent vows at sunrise. And when it had died, it had left behind a grief-stricken mother and a helpless father, neither of whom could bridge the chasm between them and return to a time when they were two halves of a whole rather than a broken two-thirds.        

Cherry blossoms bloom like snowflakes. I can only feel the cold.

Everything freezes at my touch. Your hands, I'm afraid to hold.

She lifts her face towards the cloudless sky. The air smells like spring, woven through with the gentle fragrance of flowers and the refreshing scent of rain. Her feet sink into the soft earth as she makes her way to the cherry tree. Its petals float with the grace and quiet of snowflakes and she marvels at their ability to glide freely in the wind. If only she could do the same, steer through the minutes and sail through the years without the fear of sinking from the weight of her loss.    

But loss is like any wound. A wound can heal with time, but the scar it leaves is a constant reminder. Reminder of the crippling pain and the simple truth that a once functioning part of you is gone forever.

***

He watches her from a distance from the confines of his car. Her hair flutters in the wind with the falling blossoms and he waits until she is gone before stepping out. The walk between the tombstones is quiet and he crouches down when he arrives at the end of the row. The granite slab is smaller than he remembered, dwarfed by its ancient companions, all of whom are etched with lengthy inscriptions. With a frigid finger, he traces the single syllable upon the smooth surface. From cradle to grave, a fleeting spring.

He has always known his heart was a barren wasteland devoid of warmth. Over the years, it had only grown colder from lack of use and he had not dared reach out for her, afraid of drawing her deeper into his icy embrace. It was why he had let her go, all those years ago, and had allowed time to mend her in his stead. He was a winter that longed for the heat of summer, but powerless to hasten her arrival. All he could do was watch her from afar, frozen and alone.