༻𖥸༺

Winter has always come with a feeling of emptiness and the weather as dreary as it can be dampens the holiday cheer that surrounds her. She sees it, catalogues it and ultimately despises it. It's a sensation that grips at her heart, cold fingers of jealousy latching onto her in a manner she cannot quite control.

("It's always been like this," is the cold comfort that she tells herself in the depths of her mind, but she can't help but feel the bitter tang of a lie on her tongue.)

She exhales the breath from her lungs then, watching in fascination as the puff of warm air curls upon itself before dissolving in misty tendrils. Her eyes focus back to the pane of glass stretched in front of her. She stares into her reflection and the sight that greets her seems so foreign.

A person she does not know stares back at her, the picture that she paints is lovely by all accounts; the gentle glow of the toy shop's Christmas decorations and the snow performing its tantalizing dance, weightless in the background. She looks like a doll, like she fits right in with the other toys on display.

("Look at you, dressed up so nicely." Gentle hands, calloused by hard work, adjust her hair, pinning it behind her ears and out of her face. "Little doll, will you give your mom a smile?")

She hates it.

She steps away then from the display window, eyes downcast so as to not gaze at the winter fair that was in full swing around her. She doesn't want to be here, but this street is the only shortcut that she could take. So she bears her teeth and soldiers on, soft layers of snow crunching lowly under her slow footfall.

Her feet are cold in spite of the fur on the inside of her boots and she is quite certain her hands have turned a sickly blue maybe purple from constant exposure to the elements. She knows her face is beyond flushed from the harsh wind that blew not even moments ago. She runs a tongue over her lips and finds them dry, their soft skin on the verge of cracking.

She doesn't know why she punishes herself so-by standing outside in the freezing weather for hours on end when she can get away with not doing it. She doesn't know why doing it feels like righting an ancient wrong.

Human emotions are complex, hard to understand even by those who analyze what they feel.

("It's hard," she doesn't say, afraid the meaning of her words would be misunderstood.

"I hate it," she chants to herself whenever she can, under her breath and within her mind.

"Can I be happy?" She asks out loud, anxious for an answer. But her bravery is rewarded by silence and she doesn't bother asking again.)

She's always been quiet. A little mouse in the background. A wallflower simply observing.

Never giving input. Never making itself remarked. Standing in a corner and watching the world go by, not feeling like she belongs. Perhaps that was what stopped her from truly blooming. But she is far from a conventional flower. So distinct and different as she is. Or perhaps it is the environment in which she spread her roots that ruined her flower buds.

She is dragged out of her thought by a buzzing from her coat's pocket. Her phone, most probably. She moves her hand to take it out, her fingers numb from the cold making the task a tad difficult.

A contact shines on the device's screen. 'Sis' it says and a ghost of a smile stretches over her chapped lips. The message received is a picture of a red mug with tiny images depicting Santa Claus littered over its paint. The picture is followed by a short text, "What do you think?"

"It's ugly." She types back, absently noting the warmth that spreads within her chest. "I love it," she adds for good measure before a childish banter could break out.

Her sibling isn't always around, moved out as she is, but she's always made a point of coming back home for the winter holidays, simply to spend more time with the ice flower that she calls a little sister.

It's... nice. Being someone's priority, she means.

Her phone buzzes again. "Wanna meet up and get hot cocoa with peppermint and extra marshmallows?"

Oddly specific of her sister, given her personality. She's always been like that, with her head lost in worlds beyond mortal understanding and coming at everything from a sideways perspective.

'Quirky,' they call her.

("Brilliant," she whispers.)

She smiles at the onslaught of messages that flood their chatroom, momentarily contemplating putting her notifications on silent, yet not having the heart to actually ignore her sister.

She abhors winter. Loathes it with a passion, yet Christmas is weirdly comforting.