Winter had come with a vengeance. It smothered the streets in fluffy white. Blinding, obliviating white. It covered up the mistakes and hurts of the past. It would melt away eventually and take away all the pain, but for now it sat and waited in silent stagnancy.

Woohyun's breath was wispy and white, puffing away from him as he stood outside of his dorm room.

He imagined his breath was smoke. Like the cigarettes his roommate was so fond of and they would fight and he would come in too close and his breath would smell like tobacco and desperation. And the smoke would settle up on the ceiling since it was too cold to open a window Woohyun insisted but he never listened and Woohyun would be pushed down on his bed and the window would be cracked open and the cold would seep into his bones and his thoughts and he would stop.

He imagined his breath was steam. Rising up from his customary cup of coffee. And from hers. The wispy whiteness would tangle with her hair and he imagined that his breath would mingle with it. And her eyes would light up to see him. And they could share silent companionship over a shared love of caffeinated drinks and worn brick walls and the sound of pages turning and thoughts churning. 

But she wasn't that kind of girl.

And he wasn't that kind of boy.

She had friends, the wrong friends, he thought to himself. But that was creepy and wrong of him and who was he to judge? They partied and played, and some days Hyomin would come in without any words and nurse her hang over along with an extra strong cup of coffee. 

And sometimes when the window was open at night and Woohyun was watching the cigarette smoke leave, he could feel her voice enter along with the cold. And it chilled him more than the breeze did. Because it was always accompanied by the deeper voice of some male companion and he hoped beyond hope that it didn't mean anything, and that they were just walking... But she was practically purring at the guy and he was chuckling and saying something stupid. Her drunken flirting fluttered into his room and settled onto his chest.

He wanted to deny. Wanted to deny that there existed any other Hyomin than the one who dutifully studied every morning. But she studied then because she didn't study at night. And that waiter had lied to him because she was not single, she belonged to everyone at those goddamn parties she always went to and their voices filled her up and she smiled and humored them all. There was no room for him there.

No vacancy, screamed her smile. Not anymore, sighed her eyes.

And he kept listening and listening and his breath grew ragged and he just couldn't take it anymore and he bolted out of bed and just shut the window. Shut out that Hyomin. He would live in his denial. He would love the girl who smiled into a cup of coffee and brushed her hair out of her face with a delicate gentleness that took his breath away. 

The window came down onto the sill with a loud snap and Woohyun could feel his roommate's eyes on him. "I'm not in the mood, Sunggyu," he muttered to the window, loud enough for him to hear. He heard a loud exhalation of breath and knew that Sunggyu had heard Hyomin. Probably suspected why Woohyun had reacted as he had. Because for all his attitude and bad habits, Sunggyu was a perceptive guy.

Sunggyu never opened the windows at night again.

The ceiling became ashy with the unspoken words and the smoke and the silent understanding that Sunggyu now allowed Woohyun. 

And one night Sunggyu wordlessly handed Woohyun a cigarette and they lay on their respective beds drawing more regrets onto the ceiling with each puff of smoke. And Woohyun coughed and choked on his first cigarette but Sunggyu hadn't laughed or said anything. Stared straight ahead and listened to Woohyun gasp for air. The burning in his lungs, a distraction. The smoke rushing past his lips, a relief. He painted her on that blackened ceiling, in all her imperfections and indiscretions. 

And he still loved her. 

He knew.

Sunggyu knew.

The cold knew.

And with each breath of smoke past his lips, each wisp of steam from his coffee, he loved her more. And he lied to himself. 

Her smiles were for no other men. Her lips touched only the warm ceramic mugs. Her fingers brushed only against worn paper. Her eyes rested only on worn words by dead men. Her hair lay only on her shoulders as she leaned forward to capture another word. 

And the snows melted and took the winter with it. The blackened portrait was scrubbed away. Her imperfections were forgotten. They were gone, with the snow.

But his lies, of course, remained.