As always, I come to this very place. For what? I still can't find the answer. Validation? Meaning? Or maybe just an excuse to escape the void that waits for me elsewhere.
I run my fingers over the Lion hairpin the "girl" gave me, its cool metal pressing into my palm. Why do I wear it? It feels ridiculous, childish even. But she liked it on me—or at least I think she did. That faint smile of hers, the way her eyes lingered, it's enough to keep it pinned in my hair, even if I hate myself for it.
The cold comes first. It seeps into my skin, an icy crawl down my spine that tells me she's here before my eyes confirm it. I glance up, and there she is. The air around her feels heavier today, the edges of her form blurring slightly in the dim light.
She doesn't greet me. No smile, no mocking comment, just the silent sound of her sitting beside me. I stare ahead, my thoughts racing.
She seems different today.
Should I ask her? Would that be too much? I barely know her, not even her name. What if she thinks it's strange? What if she… leaves?
The thought sends a spike of panic through me, a flash of something too raw and too sharp. I swallow hard, my hands gripping the edge of the bench until my knuckles whiten.
"What… what's wrong?" I manage, the words stumbling out of my mouth. My voice sounds foreign to me—small, unsure.
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even look at me.
Instead, she hums, low and soft, a sound that feels like it's meant for someone else entirely. When I ask another question—something basic, trivial—she only nods faintly or shakes her head. The motions are mechanical, almost dismissive.
Say something! Please, just say something!
My chest tightens, frustration and fear swirling into a knot I can't untangle. What happened? Did I do something wrong?
I lean forward slightly, my words tumbling out in a rush. "Did… did I upset you? I-I mean, if I did, I didn't mean to. Just tell me, okay? Please?"
Still nothing.
The silence between us feels louder than ever, like it's pressing against my skull, threatening to shatter me.
That day, it was colder than usual. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, making you wonder if it's the weather—or her presence.
We didn't talk much, if you could even call it talking. I spoke, she didn't. I asked, she barely acknowledged. Her gaze stayed distant, and her silence loomed heavier than anything she'd ever said to me.
When it was time to leave, I hesitated. "Goodbye," I mumbled, but she didn't turn around. She just sat there, looking bored, as though I didn't exist.
What happened? What did I do wrong?
The thoughts spiraled as I walked away, each step harder than the last. My hand went to the lion hairpin in my pocket, the one she gave me. Was it this? Did I offend her somehow by wearing it—or by existing?
In a burst of frustration, I yanked the hairpin out and threw it to the ground. My foot came down hard, and the crunch of metal under my shoe was strangely satisfying. But as I lifted my foot, something inside me cracked.
I bent down and picked up the mangled hairpin. It looked pathetic, a broken fragment of what it used to be—just like me. I took it home and shoved it into my drawer, burying it under a clutter of old things: a console game I hadn't touched in years, forgotten bracelets, worn-out cards.
That night, sleep eluded me. The same questions circled my mind, relentless and sharp. What did I do? Why was she like that? Was it my fault?
By morning, I felt hollow, like a ghost going through the motions. At work, my performance was abysmal. I fumbled tasks I could usually do in my sleep, my coworkers shot me concerned glances, and even my supervisor pulled me aside.
"You don't seem yourself," he said, his voice lined with worry. He sent me home early, but home was the last place I wanted to be.
Instead, I went to the park. The same bench. The same place. The hours dragged, the weight of her absence crushing me with every passing second.
And then, at 6 PM, she came.
The moment I saw her, everything lifted. That smile—wicked, cold, and sharp as a blade—it was back. Relief flooded me, and I didn't even try to hide the strange joy coursing through me.
I spoke so much that day, the words pouring out like a dam had broken inside me. She didn't say much, but she smiled. That was enough.
Before I left, she raised her hand, her cold fingers brushing through my hair. The chill of her touch sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn't move. Couldn't move. For those few seconds, I was completely hers.
Even after she left, I stayed frozen, staring at the spot where she'd been. When I finally walked home, it was like I was floating. I couldn't wait to see her again. Tomorrow. I'll see her tomorrow.
That night, sleep escaped me once more—but this time, it wasn't torment. It was anticipation.
By morning, I felt alive in a way I hadn't in years. But at work, my coworkers still whispered among themselves, their eyes full of concern.
"You okay?" one of them asked.
I nodded, smiling. "Never better."
But the worry in their eyes deepened, as though they could see something I couldn't.
After work, I head straight to the bench. The familiar spot, our spot. The world around me fades into a blur of noise and motion, but here, everything is still. I wait, the seconds stretching like hours, until finally, I feel it.
The cold air.
It wraps around me like a second skin, seeping into my lungs and freezing the restless thoughts in my mind. It's not just cold—it's hers. Her presence, her essence, surrounding me. Comforting. Anchoring.
She appears, her silhouette framed against the fading light. That smile, sharp and knowing, cuts through me like a blade. When her eyes meet mine, I feel seen—truly seen.
This feeling. Her smile. The way she looks at me. The chill that clings to her and now to me.
It's all mine.
I tighten my grip on the bench, my knuckles whitening as the realization surges through me. No one can take this from me. No one can have her.
This cold, this connection—it's a cocoon, one I never want to leave.
It's mine. All mine.