My hands burned from the cold, but I stayed where I was, letting the snow catch on my hair. Every once in a while a car would drive by, reminding me that there were warmer places I could spend my time in. But I didn’t move. Partly because I dreaded the feeling you get when you walk into a warm place from the cold. It’s like ice crystals slowly melting in your veins, scratching against the sides of your blood vessels until they’re raw. Mostly, though, I stayed because this place was quiet, peaceful, and cold.

The cold hurt, but it hurt in a way that was acceptable. The cold didn’t apologize for your chapped lips, or try to play the brutal winds off as a joke. It was a simple pain that came with no excuses. It was a pain you could trust because it was open, honest, didn’t try to make amends. It hurt you. You could leave if you wanted, or you could stay and suffer through the pain.

If you chose to suffer, you were rewarded with peace and beauty. So I stayed, and I suffered, and I was rewarded.

Eyes closed, I tilted my head up and let the snowflakes brush my skin, a comforting caress that burned my cheeks. It really was beautiful outside.