Why are there seasons?
I've asked myself that more times than I care to admit.
No, not in the scientific way. Not about weather, not about how the Earth spins into place, or how everything changes from hot to cold.
But about us, people.
Why do we bloom so suddenly, like spring, reckless with hope, only to wither when things turn cold? Why does something that feels endless in the heat of summer fall apart with the first chill?
Humans are so fragile. They pretend they're constant, but they change like weather, without warning or reason. And you never know which version of them you'll meet tomorrow.
It's strange.
People like to think change comes with some grand moment attached to it. It could be a turning point, a confession, or some conveniently timed encounter beneath a shower of sakura petals.
The stories make it look so easy.
Where a boy trips over a girl he's never met, the wind brushes past as the strands of her uneven hair shift across those unreadable eyes. Their eyes meet for all of three seconds, and the world already pauses.
Suddenly, everything has meaning.
Calling it fate, "love at first sight."
It sounds sweet, so sweet, you're supposed to feel breathless, shaken, swept into something magical. As if the world shifts, and suddenly, a stranger becomes the prelude to your love story.
I used to wonder if that was how seasons changed too.
Suddenly.
As if we'd simply looked away for too long, only to find a flower already in bloom.
Seasons aren't like that.
"Rael."
Spring doesn't arrive in a single morning
Summer doesn't end just because the date on a calendar says it should.
"Rael!"
And Winter rarely leaves without a patch of snow refusing to melt.
We only think they do.
Because—
"RAEL!!!"
I blinked, dazed beneath a familiar ceiling.
"Oh, sorry."
My eyes wandered across the room until they settled on the bookshelf tucked against the wall.
Right. Cyrus's apartment. He'd been living alone since starting senior high. I still wasn't sure whether to call it independence or just really expensive loneliness.
I looked down to find Cyrus staring up at me from the foot of our table. His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against the tabletop, his brows knitted together as though he'd been carrying the same thought for hours.
The look that only came from overthinking.
"Can I ask you something?"
I shrugged, I fixed my posture trying to look serious, as if I didn't doze off.
"It's weird," he continued.
"What is?"
Cyrus let out a sigh, spinning his phone across the surface of the table before catching it just as it reached the edge.
"...We're still talking."
"Every day."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
A dry laugh escaped him. "That's the problem."
I frowned. He wanted to ask me something. Somehow, I'd ended up asking instead.
Cyrus looked down at his phone, thumb lingering over a chat window before locking the screen again.
"We still say 'good morning.' We still ask how the other's doing. We still tell each other to get home safe," he laughed quietly.
"Everything's... the same," his smile faded almost as soon as it appeared.
"...But it doesn't feel the same anymore."
Somehow, the silence between the two of us still felt louder.
"The conversations end quicker."
"She replies."
"Just... not like she used to."
He rubbed the back of his neck. Cyrus still hadn't asked his question. Whatever it was, he seemed more afraid of hearing the answer than asking it. People rarely hesitate that long unless they're already bracing for one.
"Nothing happened, Rael."
"No fight."
"No argument."
"No reason."
"It's like..." He paused as he searched for the words. "...we're still talking."
"...But somehow, we've already stopped."
I already knew the answer Cyrus wanted to hear.
Something reassuring. Something that would convince him this was all in his head—that she'd simply been busy, that tomorrow would be different, that nothing had really changed. Maybe it would've made him feel better. I just wasn't convinced it would've made him any less wrong. Those answers were always the easiest to give.
I knew because I'd spent too long waiting for life to work the way stories said it would.
Cyrus lowered his gaze to the floor. His fingers curled tightly around one another, his breathing just a little heavier than before. He opened his mouth once, only to close it again, as though even putting the thought into words made it harder to bear.
"I don't know..." he muttered. "Maybe I'm just watching it end before it actually does."
I drew in a slow breath, the words sat at the edge of my tongue, refusing to come out. Once I said them, there wouldn't be a kinder way to take them back.
"...Then stop treating it like it already has."
His head snapped up. The disbelief on his face lingered for a moment, as if he'd expected almost any answer but that one.
"...What?"
"You're grieving a relationship that doesn't even have a beginning yet." His eyes faltered. Confusion slowly crept across his face, as though the thought had caught him somewhere between denial and understanding.
"Nothing you've told me confirms anything." I held his gaze for a moment before continuing, careful not to let my voice soften into something it wasn't. "You're filling in the silence with conclusions."
Cyrus opened his mouth, only for the words to die there.
"...It still hurts."
"I know."
"Even if... I'm the one who's got it all wrong..." A quiet breath escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "...it still hurts."
My words hung between us, unanswered. They might've stayed that way too—
"Will you quit sounding like you're delivering a diagnosis?"
Nevermind.
I glanced toward the kitchen entrance. Mikhail approached there with three steaming mugs balanced carefully in his hands, one brow raised as though he'd been listening longer than either of us realized. He crossed the room and set them onto the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside Cyrus.
"I'm just saying," he continued, nudging Cyrus lightly with his elbow. "You don't have to decide it's over just because things feel different right now. Sometimes people pull away for reasons that have nothing to do with losing feelings."
I let out a quiet breath through my nose and rubbed a hand across my forehead. "I'm not saying it is." Mikhail leaned back against the couch and looked at me expectantly. "Then what are you actually trying to tell him?"
"I know how Cyrus feels about her." My eyes drifted toward Cyrus. "...But I don't know how she feels about him."
His gaze drifted to the coffee table, settling on the untouched mug in front of him. His fingers traced slow circles along its rim, as though avoiding my eyes somehow made the answer easier to accept.
"Then... what am I supposed to do?"
"Talk to her."
His head lifted again, his brows drawing together ever so slightly.
"Just... ask?"
I gave a small nod, holding his gaze to make sure there wasn't any room for misunderstanding.
"You're trying to finish a conversation that's never happened. The only person who can answer your questions is the one you're asking them about."
Mikhail leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "...And if the answer isn't what he wants?"
I let the question hang for a moment, my fingers interlocking beneath my chin before I finally spoke.
"...Then at least it'll be real."
My eyes found Cyrus again.
"Just don't walk into that conversation expecting it to fix everything."
His lips parted, but no words came. The silence in his expression—I couldn't help but wonder if he'd already begun imagining the answer he feared most. I looked away briefly before continuing.
"Conversations don't create answers. They reveal them."
"...And sometimes the truth isn't the one you've been hoping for."
Cyrus's shoulders sank a little farther. "...You're terrible at making people feel better."
A quiet chuckle escaped Mikhail. "You know, you could've said all of that without sounding like you were reading a medical report."
I looked down at the untouched mug resting between my hands, my thumb absentmindedly tracing its rim.
"...Maybe."
The word came out quieter than I'd intended.
"I'd rather disappoint you now than lie to you today and watch you break tomorrow."
Neither of them answered. Cyrus kept staring at the coffee table, while Mikhail looked between the two of us as if searching for a way to glue the conversation back together.
"Well," Mikhail said at last, forcing a small grin, "on the bright side, if she ghosts him, at least he'll have a dramatic character development."
Cyrus let out a weak groan. "You're not helping."
I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly finding the mug in my hands far more interesting than either of their faces. "Honestly, I don't even know why you two keep asking me about this."
Mikhail raised a brow. "Because you're the one who always has an answer."
I almost laughed at that.
The truth was, I wasn't qualified to give anyone relationship advice. I'd simply been rejected enough times to know what uncertainty could do to a person.
What wore me down was never hearing "no."
It was all the days before it, convincing myself there was still something left to hope for.
I'd been there before, and if there was one thing I'd learned from it, it was that false hope hurt far more than an honest answer ever could. Strangely enough, accepting that became easier than hoping otherwise.
I set the mug down and stood from the couch. "I'm heading back."
The two of them looked up as I reached for my bag.
"Cyrus."
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget my library card tomorrow."
For a second, the ordinary request felt strangely out of place after everything we'd just talked about.
A faint nod was all he managed. "...Right."
I slipped my shoes back on near the entrance and rested a hand on the doorknob. Just as I turned it—
"Rael."
I glanced back over my shoulder and Cyrus was already looking at me, but whatever he wanted to say seemed caught somewhere behind his lips.
"...If it doesn't work out..." His voice barely carried across the room. "...Then what?"
I stood there for a moment, my hand still on the doorknob.
"...Then accept it." I held his gaze for another moment before finishing the thought. "...And keep going."
"It'll hurt. It'll probably feel unfair. But staying where you are won't change what happened."
I pulled the door open. The cool night air from the apartment hallway slipped inside, carrying with it the distant hum of elevators and muted conversations from neighboring units.
I rubbed my hands together as I stepped into the hallway, surprised by how cold it felt. It wasn't even winter yet.
Funny.
Of all things, it had to remind me of that.
I almost let myself continue the thought. Almost.
For a while, I simply stood there, staring at the dimly lit corridor before making my way toward the elevator.
School's tomorrow. I figured I'd done enough thinking for one night.
***