There’s this beautiful thing about first snow to you and others, some taking it as an excuse to get away from studies and make snow angels and snowmen, others taking it as a time to whip out the fancy Canon or Nikon cameras and snap scenery pictures of the it all.

As for you, the first snow reminds you of every important person in your life because every snowflake is different.

You’ll bundle up in a scarf, coat, mittens, beanie and all, and take a walk around the neighborhood, lightly chuckling to yourself as children get pelted with snowballs or somebody’s snowman accidentally fell apart. They remind you of your own childhood, the little things that didn’t make it seem as bad as it was.

Time traveling isn’t the best feeling in the world because it’s so spontaneous, only happening on times where you have an epiphany, but you don’t even know you’re having an epiphany until everything blacks out.

When you open your eyes, something peachy and squishy looking is obscuring your vision, but your vision clears a few seconds later.

Jinki is standing over you with a big smile on his face, his hand holding yours tightly yet gently tugging it while oozing his bubbly excitement over the snow outside. “We should try to build an igloo today,” he muses, letting go and walking towards your closet to pluck out your scarf and coat and beanie and mittens, throwing them haphazardly onto your bed as you rub your eyes and sit up.

You’re ten and he’s twelve, and you kind of hate this moment because this is the first time he sings and you really just want to die from his voice, though a little undeveloped compared to in the future.

It’s hard to pretend that nothing’s wrong, that nothing is out of the ordinary and that you’re not some sort of science fiction psycho, but Jinki is so squishy and happy that it makes you forget a little. This is the third time you’ve been sent back to this day. Everything happens the same, the wind is blowing too hard, hard enough to shake the dead grass and flowers that peek up from under the snow.

And when you go to bed that night, cheeks flushed from happiness and a good time with Jinki, the blood goes back down and you bite your lip to hold back a sob because this is supposed to be a happy day with Jinki, a day you actually get to see him without worrying about his identity and reputation of his friends in the future.

When you open your eyes in the present time, you think you’re still ten and Jinki’s still twelve because his eyes are staring at you again and there’s that warm hand tightly yet lightly tugging on your hand, but then the sterile smell of hospitals and syringes enters your nose.

Jinki looks exhausted, as if he’s tired of everything going on in his life, as if he’s about to keel over and pass out. To you, Jinki is the most complex snowflake, the kind with edges and ridges at every corner, instantly melting when it hits your finger from the body heat. You so badly want him and s to take a twelve-hour nap, a much needed break. But here he is, you taking that away from him and you have to look away because you unearth the fact that you’re just a burdensome friend, passing out at random moments, sometimes ending up in the hospital or the nurse’s office or, if lucky, at home.

"You passed out," he informs you, still squeezing your hand in a surge of emotions.

"Yeah," you breathe out. "I know."

"Are you not eating? Have you been getting enough sleep?" he sincerely asks, fear and nervousness rising in each syllable, his tone making your heart burn and clench.

"I feel like I should be asking you that," you say, tugging your hand away from his so he can be safe from any possible covert media.

You two are just good friends, close enough to be siblings, but you’re the one with the unrequited love and even s know, constantly egging you to tell him, to confess, but you can’t risk that.

But then again, maybe you can. The chances of him liking you back are slim to none, and maybe the dangers of him being found with you will be drastically decreased because it’d be so awkward, so uncomfortable if he doesn’t return your feelings. Therefore, he’d force himself to forget and you’d be gone from his life, and eventually the rest of s. You never travel forward, always backward.

"It seems as if the nurses here know you well."

You turn back to him with your mouth frowning and eyebrows furrowed in confusion, completely mirroring his own as well.

"They say that you’re here again for the nth time."

You’re speechless because you’ve grown up lying about your fainting moments to others outside of family, but there’s something that’s stopping you from lying, fake words that usually roll off your tongue smoothly and gracefully, but sneakily and slightly sinisterly.

"Please don’t lie to me," he pleads, grabbing onto your hand and capturing it tightly as you try to free it from his warm contraption.

You don’t know, you’re so conflicted as of what to do, as of what is right or wrong, as of if he should know or not because he’ll just be even more attached or maybe not because the world is twisted in its own intricate ways, a dimension you hate delving into.

"You can’t avoid me," he lightly warns.

Yes I can, and I will.

Just watch.