The Season We Never Shared 🌿🍃

The Voice of the Spring 🌼 

He was never meant for softness. Just like his nature, his coldness freezes me. Whenever he arrives, I fade, because he makes my beauty disappear and slowly takes the colour out of me until I no longer recognise myself. 

I learned that the way frost settles, quietly, without apology. I tried to bloom in him once, tried to add colour to his life, tried to press life into the spaces he kept untouched. But he was not empty; he was simply closed, locked, not open for anyone.

And still, I linger around him, hoping he would look back at me at least once. But once again, he grows colder, and somehow, it makes my own blood run cold. Yet, he hesitates before leaving completely, in that fragile warmth that dares to return. I often wonder if that is love or if he is simply comfortable in my presence.

Maybe I was never meant to stay. Maybe I was only born to remind him that he once had something good and let it go. I fade when he arrives and return only after he is gone, waiting an entire year just to meet him again. 

But looking at how cold he is now, I can’t help but question if this is what I waited for all along. I tried to give him my life, but he took away mine. I tried to give him colour, but he painted his world white.

The Winter's Voice ❄️ 

She arrived like something I could not hold, too warm, too alive, too colourful, the kind of brightness that almost blinded me. She was too much for a season that survives on stillness, coldness, and frost. She called me distant. I called it survival. Living itself felt heavy, and while she offered me bouquets, I had nothing to give in return. Not because I didn’t want to, but because there was nothing in me that knew how to.

A part of me lived in her, I know that much. But she never truly belonged to me, and even if I had wanted her to, she never could. I always felt like I was less, like she deserved warmth, not the frost I gave her in return for everything she was.

There are things you learn not to touch, because the moment you do, they leave. I learned that the hard way. I reached for her once, and in the end, it was only me who remained.

And yet, even now, I feel her, in the quiet undoing of my cold, in those rare moments when I almost soften. I see her arrival only after I have left, like something I was never meant to witness fully.

I do not miss her the way she would understand. I hope she does not miss me the way I do, because this is who I am, cold, distant, it is in my nature, something she could never truly know.

But there are days when the ice begins to break, just slightly, just enough to make me wonder… what if I had learned to bloom alongside her? Maybe then, we would have been made for each other.