His body huddles against cold glass—frozen palms and trembling knees, magenta scarves and black gloves.

Ice flickers across his dashboard, white and glittering under the rays of sun. His fingers hover from outside the car window, cigarette bud burning to its stem—grey ashes and orange fire—the only warmth in his monotonous life.

The ambience of laughter lingers deep within his bones; resonate under the stillness of his lips.

Kyungsoo remembers the winter in precise fragments of memory—Christmas lights, gingerbread and a particularly strange boy:

“Hi, I’m Jongin.”

“K-kyungsoo.”

The taller laughs, “you don’t look very comfortable.”

Silence.

And so the car ride moves with slow deftness—under Jongin’s quiet muffles and heavy steering.

And just as they stop beside Kyungsoo’s apartment building, Jongin breathes, “See you around, snowflake.”

And true it was—Jongin was always around.

Kyungsoo was always the lingering snowflake—light and small and fragile.