5800 miles away, Zitao mimicked, gazing blankly at the torn photographs scattered around him. Minty air freshener only tore at him more, reminding him of the seas between them, sharp as an icicle and cold as the darkness. Heat seemed to seep in through the walls, pressing down on him. 45 floors up and Zitao felt like he was 6 feet under, clawing against the choking feeling in his throat every time he tried to pick up the phone. Neon lights blared in the distance, bouncing bright imprints onto the balcony seat. Once upon a forlorn winter, Yifan would've curled up there with another one of those books, humming to himself. He'd left like the snowflakes with the spring, melting through the cracks in their hearts and leaving only a fiery haired boy to pick up the pieces.