It is snowing somewhere, I'm sure of it. I can't fathom the bite right now; we spent all of yesterday's afternoon outside in the warm air.
I laid down on a bed of pillows, my face all too close to the dusty floor. The air outside smelled entirely different than what I'd been breathing just moments before I slung the door open. How can this be, how can air an inch apart be so different.

My closet is divided in half, split down the middle. One door slides open to reveal all the clothes I can wear, the other side contains everything I will never wear again. It is similar to sorting for the seasons, but this is a season that will not come again. I will never be that person who wore those clothes on those days in that city for that job in that relationship all those months and years.

No one knows what is on the other side. That is why we push ourselves up the sidewalk, so steep, because the front door is just ahead. And there are stairs, but we can climb those, and then there's a lock, but we have a key.

No one knows what exists on the other side, but I do. I have lived in a room full of myselves and I have seen what no one else but us knows. We know the Earth is round. We know the ocean is deep. We know the stars are enough to hold you. And we know that no one else is seeing what we see.

My voice grew hoarse as I spoke and he got up to fetch me a glass of water. With the paper cup in my hand, the cool water on my tongue, I paused, knowing that this was why we were all here. I paused because it all made sense and it made no sense to anyone else and that is why we are all here.

Sometimes, it is too much to bear.