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constellations
(red herring)
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The bluff is quiet. Her feet shift in the wilting grass, eyes set in the distance.
Her gloved hands are tucked into the pockets of her red coat, and she thinks that Snow is among the most beautiful places she's ever seen. Neither her own foggy breath nor the anxiety of an impending exam can hide that.
The city stretches out below her, and a land blanketed in white has spires of ice, evergreens in the snow, and crisp scarlet sloped roofs bringing color to what some would call desolation. It is clear to her, from this view, that even in the throes of winter, this land is alive.
The sky is clouded and swollen, and the wind is blistering against her face, red rising on the curves of her cheeks. She waits.
It does not take long for him to come, and she doesn't need to turn around to know that the sudden shift in the wind, the warmth that rises to her cheeks is all him. She licks her dry lips, and she doesn't say a thing. The months of distance come to a close as his fingers, icy from exposure, brush her nape, curl around her hair's new length—a meager centimeter more than when he last saw her. "You're letting it grow," he observes, and her eyes soften at his tone.
So soft, so soft.
"I want it long enough where I can put it in a ponytail without it looking ridiculous," she explains, a barely-there tremble in her voice.
They settle back into silence, and when he finally takes the last few steps so his chest bumps against her shoulder, her eyes slip shut, and she exhales. She allows the tension to melt off of her bones, and she unwinds back onto him.
Her eyes are wet as the snow begins to drift down, as his fingers weave together with hers.
So soft, so soft.
She waits.
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notes: winter is coming