Why was I here?
What was I doing?
Did she even want to see me?
I knocked, the sound echoing down the silent street. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure she could hear it. For a second, I almost ran, but my feet stayed rooted, heavy with everything I was about to risk.
Time stretched, thick with regret. I wondered if this was a mistake, if showing up would only push her further away.
Then the door opened.
Nina stood there.
She looked even more beautiful under the streetlamp’s glow, the night breeze stirring her braids. Moonlight caught in her eyes, soft and familiar. She wore a loose pink satin nightdress, the fabric shifting as she stilled in surprise.
We were frozen, staring at each other.
Her face held shock, confusion, and maybe… a trace of what we once were. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak, but no words came.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence. Annoyance laced her words, but beneath it, I caught aflicker of curiosity and longing.
I swallowed hard, feeling the words stuck in my throat. “I wanted to see you.”
“How do you even know where I live?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. The motion caused a braid to fall across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear with a quick, almost impatient gesture. Her eyes still narrowed, studying me as if I were a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve.
“I knoweverythingabout you, Nina,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her gaze pierced through me, and I felt the familiar ache of everything I had lost, mingling with the hope of what could still be. “I’m not letting you in.”
“That’s fine,” I said quickly, sensing her hesitation, my heart racing as I leaned closer, desperate for a connection. With a slight smile, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “I brought you a gift.”
Her brow furrowed, suspicion mixing with intrigue. “A gift?”
I handed her the package, watching as she took it with cautious fingers. “Open it.”
As she unwrapped the delicate paper, a snowflake crocheted from soft white yarn emerged.
“You crocheted this?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.
“Yeah, I’ve been doing it for years now,” I admitted, a hint of pride sneaking into my tone. “Flowers, ear covers, scarves, mitts, and everything of the sort.”
“Flowers?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
“Peonies to be exact.”
She examined the snowflake closely, a soft smile breaking through her defenses. “Grazie,” she murmured, her voice softer now.
I nodded, relief washing over me. “Yeah, it reminds me of winter.”
Nina chuckled, the sound lightening the air between us. “I was your winter, wasn’t I?”
“Why do you say it in the past tense?” I asked, my heart quickening at the hint of melancholy in her tone.
“Isn’t it the past?” she replied, tilting her head as if challenging me.
I stepped closer, my gaze steady on hers. “You’llalwaysbe my winter, no matter how many years have passed.”
Her expression softened, and for a moment, the distance between us seemed to fade. I could see the inner conflict in her eyes—the pull of the past against the weight of our history.
