He Died in Spring. I've Been Stuck in Winter Ever Since.

Spring had always been his season. The world around him burst into life with bright colors and fresh scents, but for him, it was a time of new beginnings, hope, and endless possibility. I remember the way he smiled as the first cherry blossoms bloomed—like the world was made just for him.

We met on a crisp April morning when the park was just beginning to wake up from winter’s grasp. He was sitting on a bench under a tree, eyes closed, feeling the sun on his face. I, lost in my own storm of grief, was drawn to that quiet peace. That day, the season changed for me too—because he became my everything.

For two years, spring was our ritual. We’d chase the blooms through the city, run barefoot through dewy grass, and share stories under the pink petals. His laughter was the soundtrack of my happiest moments, and I promised myself I’d hold on to that forever.

But spring has a cruel way of reminding us that life is fragile.

It was the middle of May when the fever hit him. I watched helplessly as the light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by pain and confusion. The doctors called it sudden, unexpected, and left us grasping at hope that slipped like sand through our fingers.

He died in spring.

The world around me continued to bloom, to laugh, to live—and I stood frozen. Everything seemed unbearably cruel. How could the season that promised rebirth also bring the end?

Since that day, I’ve been stuck in winter.

The cold settled into my bones. The world’s colors dulled, and I retreated into shadows. Friends told me to move on, to “get over it,” as if grief were a storm you could simply wait out. But I wasn’t just mourning him—I was mourning the future we’d planned, the laughter we’d never share again, the spring mornings I’d never wake up to by his side.

I watched others celebrate the season, but to me, every blossom was a reminder of what I’d lost. I was trapped in an endless winter—icy, silent, and gray.

The hardest part was feeling invisible in the midst of so much life. People didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing. I became a ghost in my own story, wandering through a world that felt both familiar and foreign.

One day, months after the funeral, I found myself wandering into the park where we’d met. The cherry trees were in full bloom, petals drifting like snowflakes on the breeze. I sat beneath the same bench and let the tears come—bitter, healing tears.

And then, something unexpected happened.

A small girl, no older than five, ran up to me, holding a handful of fallen petals. She smiled shyly and pressed them into my hand.

“For you,” she said.

Her innocent kindness cracked the ice that had formed around my heart.

In that moment, I realized that spring wasn’t just about beginnings and endings—it was about the cycle. About death and rebirth, loss and hope. I had been so focused on the winter inside me that I forgot the world itself was moving forward, offering chance after chance to heal.

I started to visit the park every day. I watched new flowers bloom, saw children play, and heard birdsong filling the air. Slowly, the ice around my heart began to melt.

I never forgot him—how could I? He was part of me, stitched into every memory. But I began to live again, not in spite of my grief, but alongside it.

Because healing isn’t forgetting. It’s learning to carry love forward, even when the seasons change.

Spring will always remind me of him. But now, it also reminds me of survival. Of resilience. Of the quiet courage it takes to find warmth when your world has been cold for so long.

He died in spring, yes. But I am learning to live in spring too.