I lightly jog in place on fuzzy sock covered feet as I whip a chilled arm through my rack of warm jackets.

“C’mon,” I encourage my favorite to appear in this depthless closet.

The word is a swirl of mist before my face, a taunting reminder of my old home’s current lack of heat.

I finally lay eyes on a tan geometric design and exclaim an, “Aha!” that any reputable scientist having experienced a breakthrough would be proud of.

I don’t even bother with the zipper, just slipping up into the promise of warmth like a cave diver.

My head pops in the stretched collar, my arms thread through the sleeves, and I close the closet door with a bump of my hip.

The little nest of blankets I’ve made in the center of space heaters is calling my name. It would be rude to ignore it any further.

I rub my hands together like I’m hatching a dastardly plot, breathing concerningly cold air into my palms before relenting and shoving them into the jacket pockets.

I freeze, and not in the way I had already been.

My left hand crinkles paper stored there.

I’m unfortunately aware that it isn’t the fun gift of money from my past self.

I close my eyes and clearly see the words that had only just begun to fade from memory and restore my sanity.

‘I can’t do this’

That’s it. That’s all he said.

Left it on his pillow for me to wake up to instead. No explanation, no reason.

Do what? I still don’t know. Be a good person? Put actual effort into being the worst one?

He didn’t even sign it!

After I’d shoved the note in my coat pocket and ran out front to find his car missing – snow already covering the tracks from when he left – I’d decided that he’d attempted to write a love note, but ended up documenting his frustration with the inability to write in cursive.

He was just in town getting help perfecting it. That lie was the only thing that made sense.

The truth was so cold that the note is like ice in my grip.

My morning clock radio alarm suddenly goes off, as if to remind me that any positivity is all a dream.

I huff a laugh that fogs the air and devolves into hysterics as the music kicks on, playing a very popular love song about skipping rocks and deep talks.

I stay as frozen as my home apparently wishes me to be.

The acoustic guitar picks up the melody, preceding a romantic duet that I know by heart.

These icy halls haven’t heard it in a year.

My right hand clenches both contents of its own pocket.

When the chorus picks up again, I grasp the stone and throw it away, just as easily as he did ‘us,’ perfectly pelting the radio with a precision honed over many summer afternoons.

The impact makes an inordinately loud clatter, like even the clock was startled by my violence.

Our song still plays, just more fuzzily. As if my righteous anger is what was needed to create more distance. Fine.

I slowly approach the radio as the male lead sings about being by her side, where he’d always stay, he’d never have it any other way.

The female plays her guitar and cheerily repeats.

Rolling my eyes releases a tear barely held at bay.

I grasp my remaining gift and lift my right fist, smashing the half broken radio until it relents.

My success at summoning silence warms me from within.

Man, I hate that song.

I unfurl my grip and admire the reddened impression of pain the guitar pick made, just like my singing partner left on me.