In the end, we’re nothing alike. Every day, they say that we’re so similar, so complimentary, a pair that’s meant to be. And sometimes, I feel that that could be true. My semi-seriousness and small smiles to your childishness and laughter. Those are the small moments that I cherish, where all my insecurities and all my self-deprecatory thoughts disappear and I can just live in the moment with you.

But every time we’re apart it comes back and I wonder how we could ever be a pair. I was snow, “pretty and white and soothing,” while you were spring, “bright and cheerful and full of colors.” They’re wrong. Snow isn’t pretty and white and soothing, it’s large and bothersome, coating driveways and houses. Snow isn’t white, it’s easily stained, slowly churning into a dirty mud as a thousand shoes step on it. Snow isn’t soothing, it’s dark, falling and falling and falling until it touches the ground and inevitably melts into a filthy slush.

And as I slowly melted into that dark, dirty, muddy concoction, I caused everything to melt away with it. Unable to withstand your brightness next to my darkness, I started to avoid you. Those moments piled up, bit by bit, covering all of our memories with my own self-hate. Even you, the vibrant flower, were eventually suffocated by the cold, cold snow. It was unjust, I know, and now I’m punished by the guilt of yelling at you for no good reason and our broken friendship.

In the end, you realized that winter didn’t match spring and snow and flowers could never have peace. Whenever we meet each other’s eyes, we look away, and now all I have are the flowers to remind me of you.