I wake up, 5:42 a.m. My anger is killing me inside. Looking to my right, I see ice frozen to my window. I bang the glass and the ice falls to reveal a dark, mysterious, snow-hidden field. The clouds overhead are filled with melancholy and my favorite tree, which seems to be oddly placed in the middle of the scene, has icicles hanging from it, like tear drops. My tree is crying with me. As I lay back on my bed, my sheets feel cold, and I pull my covers up over my head. I wish I could cover up what I have done. Why did I do it? Why did I let her go?