The Winter You Stood On The Other Side Of Me

I knew something irreversible had happened when I turned in the snow to answer you and your footprints stopped where mine continued alone.

The air burned my lungs with cold and the streetlight above us threw a dull halo that caught every falling flake yet somehow refused to touch you. I called your name once too softly and the sound vanished before it reached your mouth. You looked at me with that careful expression you had learned lately as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment. Then you stepped back not away from me but through something unseen and the night closed around the space you left behind.

I stood there longer than the cold allowed because leaving felt like an admission I was not ready to make. Somewhere a car passed its tires hissing on wet pavement and the ordinary sound felt obscene against the quiet you left me in. Whatever we were had already crossed a line that could not be retraced and I had not noticed the crossing until my hands were empty.

I met you at the library during the first snow of the year. The windows fogged quickly and the radiators knocked and hissed like they were arguing with the cold. I was shelving returns when I noticed someone standing too still in the history aisle. You were reading the spines without touching them your hands clasped behind your back like a visitor in a museum.

When I asked if you needed help you flinched slightly then smiled apologetically. You said you were looking for a book that used to be there. Not a title just a place. Your voice carried an odd echo as if the space around you were larger than the aisle allowed. I told you books moved all the time. You nodded and said some things did that.

You came back the next day and the day after that always at the same hour just as the afternoon light slanted low enough to turn dust into gold. We talked quietly about inconsequential things the weather the building the way the river froze unevenly each winter. You never checked anything out. You never used the computer. Still you lingered like someone unwilling to leave a warm room.

I noticed the temperature dropped when you stood close. Not sharply just enough that my skin prickled. Once when I brushed past you in the narrow aisle my arm tingled painfully cold for a second and then warmed again. You watched my reaction with concern and said you were sorry. I asked for what. You hesitated and said for forgetting.

It took weeks before you told me you had died nearby years ago crossing the river on ice that had looked solid until it was not. You said it without drama without asking for sympathy. You said you came to the library because it was the last place you had felt unremarkably alive. The confession settled between us heavy and quiet. I should have stepped back. Instead I asked what you remembered.

We grew close in pauses and half sentences. You told me about skating as a child about the way cold used to feel different then. I told you about my mother moving south because winters had become too heavy for her. We avoided the center of things circling it carefully. The library became our shared shelter from questions neither of us wanted to answer.

Outside winter deepened. Snow piled along the sidewalks muffling sound. The river froze thick and white except in the center where dark water moved restlessly beneath. You watched it often from the bridge standing far enough back that no one noticed you. I stood beside you breathing clouds into the air and feeling the cold gather around us.

The first time I tried to touch you it was instinctive. You slipped on the ice and I reached out. My hand passed through your elbow and met a shock of cold so intense it stole my breath. I staggered back heart racing. You steadied yourself without my help and looked stricken. You said gently that it was dangerous. I laughed shakily and said for whom. You did not answer.

After that we learned restraint. We walked side by side without brushing shoulders. We sat at opposite ends of benches. Still the intimacy grew fed by what we did not allow. When you looked at me your gaze held a longing so sharp it hurt to meet. When I spoke your name it seemed to anchor you briefly to the world.

You began to fade when the cold grew severe. On the coldest days you were barely visible your outline thin as frost. You apologized often. I told you it was fine even as fear gnawed at me. One evening you did not appear at the library at all. I waited long after closing pacing between shelves that felt suddenly hollow. When I finally left the night pressed close and silent.

You found me on the bridge days later standing where the ice met open water. Your presence felt lighter almost translucent. You said the river was calling more insistently now. That winter made the boundary thinner. I wanted to scream at the season at the water at the unfairness of timing. Instead I asked how long.

You said you did not know. You said staying took effort now like pushing against a current. I told you I would help. You smiled sadly and said love did not work that way. The words lodged deep inside me.

We spent the remaining days carefully deliberately. We shared small moments like secrets. You listened while I read aloud in the evenings my voice filling the quiet you could not. You stood beside me while I made soup breathing in steam you could not taste. Each moment felt weighted precious and already slipping.

The night everything changed snow fell thick and fast erasing sound and distance. We walked together toward my apartment the world narrowed to a tunnel of white. Streetlights glowed dimly. You grew quieter with each step. I felt the change before I saw it a pressure easing like a held breath released.

We stopped under a light where our shadows should have met. I turned to speak and saw at once that something fundamental had shifted. You stood slightly apart as if separated by a thin invisible wall. The snow fell through you untouched. My chest tightened.

You said it was time. Not with finality just with acceptance. I shook my head reflexively then stilled. I did not want to beg. I did not want to make this harder. The cold seeped into my bones. You lifted your hand hovering near my arm and I lifted mine to meet it knowing already it would not connect.

Our hands passed through each other slowly deliberately. I felt a deep aching cold spread through me and settle. You closed your eyes and exhaled as if relieved. The streetlight flickered and steadied. For a moment the world held its breath.

You said thank you for seeing me. The words cut deeper than any farewell. I wanted to say so many things but language felt suddenly inadequate. I nodded instead and hoped you understood everything I could not say.

You stepped back and the space between us solidified. Snow continued to fall indifferent. I watched you fade gradually not all at once. Your outline softened then thinned. Your eyes lingered on mine until the very end. Then you were gone and the light shone only on empty snow.

I stood there until my hands went numb and my tears froze on my cheeks. Eventually I turned and followed my own footprints home. Inside the apartment the air felt warmer yet emptier. I sat by the window and watched snow erase the street.

Spring will come eventually. The river will break its ice and move freely again. Sometimes when winter nights are quiet and the light catches just right I feel a familiar cold brush past me gentle and brief. I do not turn anymore. I have learned that loving you means carrying the place where you stood even when you are no longer there.