Until the First Snowfall

I first met him on a bright, sunny day, yet we parted on a cold, snowy day.

First loves are strange. Last loves are even stranger. I was told that each person in the world is like a single snowflake, with the same composition as other snowflakes, but a different structure. Add two of them together, and you get two snowflakes, but add hundreds together, and you get none — the beauty of each specific one blotted by its merging with those around it, unknowingly becoming insignificant.

I didn't know what to expect when I first encountered my last love, or when he asked me out. The first day was one of the best days of my life, but also one of the fuzziest memories I have. I remember the morning sun, the dewdrops on the grass, the notepad on my lap, but . . . I can't remember his face.

I rocked back and forth on the swings, pencil in my hand, as I furiously scribbled dozens of arbitrary ideas onto paper, worried that if I couldn't record them fast enough they would all vanish, like a snowflake upon landing on my hand. I was so focused on my writing that I didn't realize a man peering over my shoulders.

"Love is like snow, beautiful and crisp at first but, after a while, becomes trampled, dirty, and dangerous," he read aloud, laughing. "I like it."

My first reaction was to jerk away in shock, clutching the notepad to my chest and blurting, "How long were you there for?" My second reaction occurred inside me, as my heart warmed up and butterflies fluttered around my stomach. "Thank you."

"A pretty long time; and no problem." He smiled, sitting down on the swing beside me.

For a while, we talked about stories, recommending novels to each other and finding comfort in that we were both writers and readers. I allowed him to read through my notepad, critique my ideas, and give advice on my style. He was a fascinating person, with much more creativity than I could ever imagine. He told me about the books he wrote, all the strange inspirations he had for writing them, including how his tripping down the stairs inspired him to write a story about a boy who was unable to walk up and down the stairs. I laughed when he described it.

"It's true," he insisted, grinning. "It even became a best-seller."

I smiled. Without it being said, we both knew the story sold well not only because of the humor, but also because of the deeper meaning hidden within the intricate writing. That was the pro of being a writer. We understood each other.

The morning passed by just like that. Inevitably, we would have to end the conversation and go our ways, but a part of me refused to accept it. I scribbled onto a blank page of my notepad:

Why must snow fade so soon?

He stared at me for a moment, and the intensity of his eyes burned into mine. Then he brought his hand over to mine, carefully taking the pencil from me. Perhaps it was an accident — but I could swear it was intentional — that his palm lingered on the top of my hand longer than it should have, as if not wanting to move away.

It's summer, idiot, he wrote. There is no snow to fade.

Playfully, I slapped his arm. "I'm serious."

What happened after that, I can't remember clearly, but I can recall two things.

The first is what he said: "Me, too."

The second? What he subsequently wrote:

Snow comes around more than once per year.