Suitcase tracks in the snow.

I remember the night she broke up with me. It didn't rain, like it should have. It always rains in books or movies, when change happens. It'll suddenly pour, like the clouds don't give a fuck to what you're going through. "Here, now you're wet, on top of all that. Go inside, where you used to sleep with her."

It didn't rain, it snowed. 

It was like rain, but much, much colder.

And I had to roll her suitcase through all that.

And it's not even warm where I live now, like it should be. Like you always imagine when you hear of the place. Even at noon, I'm uncomfortable without a hoodie.

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