There was a time when I loved you, or at least I thought I did. Rosy cheeks and blurred vision filled my days, with many a warm night spent safely under the covers. But now, I can honestly say that I feel nothing anymore. I don’t love you now, and I don’t think I ever did in the first place. I think I loved the idea of you—all classic, Norman Rockwell-style paintings and one too many viewings of Bridget Jones’ Diary. But now, I see you for what you truly are: dreary and frigid.

One interaction with you leaves me numb and wishing I could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. I get chilled to the bone by your coldness, and, no matter how much I try to remind myself that this is always what happens when you’re around, I end up suffering once again and being forced to deal with the consequences as I retreat home, shivering in defeat.

No matter where I am, I can feel you all around me, suffocating me. The farther I walk, the harder it gets to breathe, as if an icy hand were pressing down on my chest and forcing all of the air out of my lungs. But, no matter how much better I feel with you gone, you always come right back, seemingly stronger and more intimidating than ever.

A hot shower helps sometimes, or burrowing into my warm sheets, but I know that, eventually, I’ll have no choice but to come out of hiding and face you yet again. It’s a vicious cycle with which I’ve grown weary. I’ve decided that I’m moving to California, so I can be far away from you for good this time. I’ll be able to freely go where I want, with no restrictions or fears that I’ll end up stuck like I was with you many a time. My life will be filled once again with color and warmth.

Sorry winter; it’s not me, it’s you. I’ll pretend to miss you and your ten foot tall snow drifts when it’s 90 degrees and sunny in the middle of July, but I think we both know that I won’t.