He was the eternal winter, fields blanketed with stiff sheets of bitter, blue ice, drooping skies scarred with streaks of numb grey and purple.
Sometimes, if he lost himself deeply enough in their depths, he could see faint dashes of pinks and reds beyond the iron silk.
She was the eager but hesitant autumn, weighed down yet floating at the same time, brimming with surprises and forever teetering on the brink of uncertainty.
Yet there was a certain grace to it- a constant state of metamorphosis between the four seasons, a pendulum on a color-splashed surface.
Her spring came gently and surely, curious blossoming buds of pinks and yellows; her summers with exhilarating bursts of greens and mellow oranges and dusky, comforting reds, occasionally interrupted with sudden intervals of flickering darkness and fading color.
She learned to let go of the world during those hollow, paralyzed periods and to let herself fall, waiting for someone to catch her just in time.
He was her winter.
His Veronica was his single glimpse of the coming spring.