Slushy roads, blurred headlights, and snow-obscured faces. One imagines the other, with warm beds and hot chocolate, eyeing this person across a table with the early dark outside. Everything overpowered by the unpleasant sticky feeling in your stomach. Glimmering, power outage candles reflect in those eyes, as the trickiest comfort is born—tricky because these smells remain, these sights, these sounds, these tactile instances stick in corners of memory, replay over and over. Summer love is bright and optimistic but doesn’t remain. In winter, depression inhabits the air, white deserts shift and overtake the land—yet out of winter comes boldly the announcement of absolute contradiction. A winter relationship ends like any other. When summer love ends it’s not irregular—as soon as it’s over it has already left. Winter love breathes. It lives after death because it has already survived the worst. It thrives under unattractive coats and burns to keep warm.