That morning after the argument, when I leave your apartment, the roads are stiff with ice. The air is paper-thin and there are no cars in the street. I walk slowly as if not to disturb the universe basking in the warmth of its dreams. I think of you. I think of our fights. The hypocrisy we share, the regrets we have accumulated over time. It is a life altering thing, this short story between us, full of opinions and prejudice, mistakes and bitterness, softness trapped inside loneliness. USA Times in a plastic bag welcomes me at the doorstep and I look at the staircase to my home for the first time. There is dust and frost on the edges, black metal railings on the side. Wear and tear from living. I hold it and share its chill. The ice that will become water and eventually vapor. Someday, it will fall from the sky as a relief or a disaster. Suffering and redemption from the same source. I want to touch you again, feel that parting of your hair and see the bright, ageing eyes looking right at me, as if saying, love is a lifelong campaign you fight with yourself.