The tomb stones, the grass, his shoes were all covered in snow. The sky was red, the sun was gone, and he felt numb, not terribly cold, just numb. He felt a tear on his cheek and quickly brushed it off with his sleeve. She had been in love with him and he had never known. He sat on the wet grass by a cross-shaped grave and stared off into the distance where he could see the mourners disappearing into their cars, back to their routines. He had cancelled class, speeded to the air port for a flight to New York, almost gotten hit by a mad cab driver, and was now sitting on wet grass with his new Banana Republic pants.
Hours passed and he forgot the time. Or perhaps he didn’t care to look at his watch, to see if was time for lunch or for supper. He got up, shook off the snow from his pants, cleared his glasses with his shirt and walked to where the crows had gathered. Her grave was a simple, grey stone with her name embedded in the middle. He looked at it, bent down, kneeling, and touched it with his finger tips. And then when the crows flew away, and the snow stopped, and the sky became dark, he broke down and silently cried.

When she was alone in the metro or on the bus, when she had no one to talk to, when there was nothing else to think about, she thought of him. She thought of him in that big lecture room, talking about cells and atoms, looking at her sometimes but never for answers. She imagined him appearing out of the crowd that hurriedly got on the bus, wearing a long coat, his glasses slightly out of place, looking for a seat.
She drove off to New York, thinking again, picturing the class and him walking from corner to corner, not sitting still. He never sat in one place; he preferred to walk around. The light turned red and she almost wished to turn around, and go back to the University, find him and tell him that she cared too much. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care for a cup of coffee, that it was really him she wanted to see, him, the man who told her she was great.
And then rain started pouring, heavily, aggressively. She couldn’t hold her tears anymore so she let herself cry. She had been waiting too long for this day, too many times, too many different ways. She had pictured a sunny afternoon with a cool breeze, the sky a baby blue, and the roads clear, inviting. But this was nothing like that picture.
She drove passively, no longer watching road signs, crying, searching for tissues in the dashboard. By the time she reached the city, she was too tired to think. That night was her first night alone in a big city, away from home, away from Boston and the bittersweet memories.

In 10 minutes his students would walk in with their notebooks, ready to write every word he said. The classroom was too hot; the heat was stuck on high. He decided that he had just enough time to check his email, the weather perhaps and browse the web a bit. He had one new email in his inbox and it was from his former Biology student. She was a sweet girl who emailed him quite regularly, checking on him, keeping in touch. He opened the email, expecting a long page of random talk, of sentences that always made him laugh, smile. But this email was unusually short, simply a note of good-bye. “I am finally leaving. New York will love me; I just know it. Have coffee with me at 12 on the 18th so I can say good-bye. You know where.” He took note of the date on his note pad and closed the email page. He was happy that she had finally found what she wanted. He had always wanted the best for her, knowing she was capable of doing anything she wanted.
On the 18th, there was a long meeting for the faculty that ran until 1. As he left the meeting, he received a call from a friend he had not spoken with in years. He took the call and did not check the time. An hour later, he finished his conversation, went back to his office, and paused. He knew he was forgetting something.
He did not leave the building until 2:45 and suddenly he remembered.

She left Boston with a heavy heart on a sunny afternoon. It was the last day of autumn and the bare trees no longer provided her with a cool shade. Her suitcases were packed, her biology books neatly positioned among her clothes. She was leaving for New York City to experience city life, to explore the possibilities of New York, to live on the 20th floor of an apartment building right in the middle of Manhattan. She wanted to taste life, the life of a dreamer.
She had emailed him two days before her departure, a short message that only indicated a date and time and a request for a quick coffee to say good-bye. She did not receive an email and refused to call him. She assumed that he was busy; finals were coming up and he was, after all, a professor at Harvard with lots on his hand. She had hoped to see him, to tell him that he too had made her life, that he too had taught her to be somebody, to be amazing and true to herself.
The university had never looked more glorious to her than it did now. She was in love with it, with its classrooms, with the friends she had made, with the professors she had met. She stood, watching the window to his classroom, desperately hoping that he would approach it, perhaps to feel the air or to refresh his room. It was 10 minutes past 2 and she could no longer waste any more time.
She drove off, making a quick stop at the nearest Starbucks. She needed one last taste of her hometown. She made a toast to herself and prayed that it wouldn’t rain in the city.

Liv had a little too much to drink at V’s Christmas party. V’s husband was the bartender of the night, serving drinks to the girls, preparing the fire so they could keep warm on the deck. The girls were her colleagues, young college students, and most underage. They danced and drank and had a good time. As Liv went up the stairs where the managers sat around, eating turkey sandwiches, talking about their lives, she started feeling dizzy. The alcohol was beginning to settle in.
The next day Liv was in desperate need for caffeine to keep her body awake and her mind focused. Her bills were staggering again; she had spent too much on a pair of boots. She wanted to go back to bed and dream for the rest of the afternoon.
Liv picked up her cell phone, but decided not to call him.

MR. FRANK CAME home early from work on a Wednesday afternoon. It was around 4 p.m. and he could hear music playing in his daughter’s room. He didn’t like Western music; it was not his taste. He found it loud and incomprehensible. Mrs. Frank had not returned from work yet and there was no one else in the house but his daughter. As he took off his black shoes, he heard the water boiling on the stove. “Eve!” he yelled out, but of course Eve did not hear him since the music was playing too loudly. Mr. Frank became irritated again but went to the kitchen himself and turned off the stove. “Hi Daddy” Eve was standing by the dishwasher, giving him a big smile like she was a little girl of seven again. Mr. Frank wanted to say something regarding the music or the water that was boiling rigorously. But he simply smiled at his soon-to-be 19 year-old daughter and said “hi beautiful”.

He received an email from a former Harvard student and his heart nearly stopped. In a state of utter shock and disbelief, he closed the email, then reopened it, unable to grasp the words. He canceled his Biology class and without any formal announcement, left his office.
Hours later, he found himself in the airport, buying a ticket to New York. It was early December and the snow had already accumulated in Manhattan, reaching several inches high. Disoriented, he held the ticket firmly in his numb hand, wondering what it meant. How long had it been since they had last spoken? Four years ago, he muttered. It had been four years since they had last spoken.
With the snow falling and the crows flying over the tombstones, the cemetery was a surreal picture. The girl’s family was gathered in one corner, heads down, the mother looking into space with not a single tear on her face. At another corner, her friends were standing, some crying, others quietly mourning.
He stood by a tree, watching this picture, unsure of his position. Before he could make up his mind, his former student approached him, her eyes swollen and red.
“She was in love with you,” she said and walked away.

I didn’t know if I was in love or if it was the idea of love that I was in love with. But I knew that I had certain feelings, feelings that put me on the verge of tears, feelings that I knew had to be erased. I was thinking too much, every day, every minute that I got a chance. And it wouldn’t make sense. This idea, this convoluted concept made no sense to me. The more I thought of the idea of being loved, the idea of being part of his life, of being held, the more I became delusional. This fantasy became my every night’s dream, leading me to beautiful places, to an escape of reality and everything that was ever sensible. In daylight I was a lost puppy, a fool, an optimist looking for any kind of sign, for even the slightest possibility. By night I was a dreamer again, living my fantasy in beautiful, inescapable dreams.
And that was it. I never figured out if it was the idea or if it was the real thing. For me, that fantasy stayed in my dreams and I was forced to abandon it. I was hurting inside, but I had no choice. I was a writer, nothing more. I could weave stories in any way, with any ending, with any beginning, but I simply could not bring the story to life.

Wearing her pointy red heels and a brown dress that emphasizes her curves, she comes out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. She slips the keys into her matching purse, checking the door once more to be sure it’s locked. Right then her neighbor Mrs. Zen steps out of her apartment, tightly holding on to her cane. “You must be going to a party; you look very nice,” Mrs. Zen says enthusiastically, her eyes on the red heels. The girl simply smiles back, asking Mrs. Zen how she is. They talk a little bit about the cold and the harsh winter that everyone is worried about. And then Eve goes off, wishing Mrs. Zen a good night.
She reaches a small, cream-colored building and walks up to the first floor, her feet already in pain. Gloria opens the door, welcomes her inside and they begin the therapy session. “My neighbor thought I’m going to a party,” she says and they both laugh.

Nelly and Eve walk to the parking lot, away from a dead campus, away from the boys who were playing kick ball in the grass. Temperatures have dropped on this unexpectedly cold December evening and the girls have forgotten to wear their fur coats. The wind pushes them back every few seconds, forcing them to retreat to the brutality of winter. The girls stop to catch their breaths, their faces numb from the wind. “I smell burnt wood; it’s the smell of winter,” Nelly suddenly remarks as if she is speaking to herself. Eve says nothing and continues walking, her body too cold and numb. As Eve gets closer to the red Chevy, she does not hear Nelly’s distant voice. Inside the car, Nelly looks at her friend and says, “marshmallows and hot coca by the fire, that’s what I want right now,” and then they drive away.