Suddenly it’s December and I find myself listening to my winter playlist again. It’s a playlist with songs of love and songs of loss. The one that makes me yearn for something intangible. It’s maybe a feeling that I cannot understand, a destination whose existence I know not of, a home where I have never been, a warmth that maybe does not exist.

With the songs comes the realisation that I was never someone’s Heather or could never be someone’s Georgia. A sinking feeling that there’s no reason to dance to snowman on a white Christmas because a forever love feels too heavy to hold in my forlorn heart. Suddenly, I become too good at goodbyes as my tears dry, making promises to love them from a distance because being together does not feel the same. But the cold wraps me up soon, and I find myself missing the sun as it starts to snow, begging the question, “Was it really worth it to let them go?” And suddenly, I find myself at their doorstep, begging them back in my life, apologizing for being so shallow, trying to break down the walls I built and sealed on my own. Suddenly, the memories of those cigarettes after sex become my only source of warmth. Suddenly, it is just the wind whom I can whisper to the stories of my love.

And soon, I am tracing back my memories to August, the time when it all began, when it always begins. It’s so weird how all my stories start in August and end in December, like a pattern that renews every year. And maybe, that’s why I hate August so much. August brings me hope, a hope that starts with an end date, the date already known. And despite every December hurting me so, August does not stop making introductions, it does not stop me from weaving my wildest dreams and building airplanes. August knows that it will eventually all come crashing down. Despite August believes, like the fool it is and I let it, like the fool I am.

Suddenly my feet feel cold, a simple teaser to a dying soul. The days feel darker now, darker than my intrusive thoughts. I can no longer differentiate what is real and what is not. So, I give myself completely up, engulfing myself in all that I have left to call mine, the darkness, the sorrow, the painful nights. And I wait, wait for you to knock on my door so that I can happily die.

Suddenly, it’s December and reality hits. The one where it was never them but always me.