I’m much like that ice princess—

you know the one.

I don’t mind the cold.

I love the soft blue hush

the sky wears after sunrise,

that quiet, frozen breath of morning

before the world remembers itself.

I love the feel of my cheeks

burning red from the crisp wind,

proof that I’m still here,

that the air has teeth

and I let it bite me anyway.

Snow, though—

I don’t romanticize that mess.

It’s beautiful until it isn’t,

until it’s slush and soggy hems

and regret under your boots.

But give me cold without apology.

Give me coffee outside,

steam rising in slow ribbons,

curling around my hands

like the day is leaning in to listen.

Winter feels romantic to me—

not in grand gestures,

but in small permissions:

oversized sweaters,

soft sweatpants,

layers that say you don’t have to be sharp

to be strong.

I don’t fear the quiet season.

I settle into it.

I let it blue me gently,

let it redden my face,

let it teach me that warmth

is something you carry,

not something you wait for.