The Frozen Lake

A Note Before the Story

There’s a kind of love that never quite fades — not even with years of silence, miles of distance, or seasons lost to memory. This is a story about that kind of love. About someone I couldn’t forget. And a frozen lake that still remembers us both.

The Chill That Comes With Memory

Every other winter, when the frost creeps under the windowpanes and breath clouds the air, I remember the last time your hand slipped from mine — and the warmth I haven’t felt since.

It makes me nostalgic for things that never even happened.

I should be used to the cold by now. But I’ve been gone so long that I always want to rush inside the second I see our breath turn white.

They say time takes away most things. I never wanted you to be like most things.

What Time Took From Us

I’ll be honest — I’m afraid of being forgotten. I never talk about that with anyone.

But I thought of the time I made a fool of myself in front of you. And how, if I hadn’t, maybe you wouldn’t have remembered me at all that night.

You had issues I couldn’t stay around for, and that shattered something in me. Still, I didn’t want to light a flame for someone else while you were left in the dark. You told me there was nothing you could do.

I beat myself blue trying not to hurt you. But I did.

I gave you silence. I gave up.

And I told myself: maybe you’re meant for something greater than being someone’s love story.

The Lake We Remember

There’s a lake back home that knew us both.

You remember it, right? The one we used to visit after skipping class? I think we spent more time there than in any classroom.

Now it’s frozen. It never used to freeze.

It scares me how fast time passed and how little I said. I still can’t believe we had a reunion to attend.

You’re probably meant for a bigger life. Maybe I was too. But the feeling I have for you — it never changed.

That lake is different now. So are we. But I’d still go back in time if I could. And if I did, I’d choose you again.

When We Met Again

You met me outside my parents’ house. My mom still loves you, by the way.

It was dusk. Cold. The scarf I gave you years ago wrapped around your neck.

You said my name — and I forgot how to breathe.

Your arms wrapped around me, and I remembered what it felt like to be someone who belonged.

The Bridge, the Bedroom, the Silence

We went back to the lake. I took your hand on the bridge, and you let me.

We didn’t say much. We never had to.

Later, in that same bedroom, I watched your lioness yawn — and I remembered tracing your skin, brushing your hair back, keeping you safe from the morning.

You asked where I’d been. Who I’d been with.

And the truth was written all over me:

I’ve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.

Why I Left

We might be the losing battle. I don’t know how long I can go not knowing if you still feel the same — or if the lake has frozen over for good.

But if you asked me, I’d say yes to all those half-made promises from years ago.

We wouldn’t be perfect. But we’d figure it out.

I know you’d teach our kids to sing the way you sang for me. And I’d love you better this time. Honestly. Quietly. Entirely.

The Letter on Your Porch

I didn’t have poetic answers for why I hurt you. I just had guilt. And the truth.

You sat next to me and told stories about everything but us. I listened. And I remembered the girl who used to sing in that room.

I’ve never come back for anyone else the way I always come back for you.

After you left, I didn’t know if I’d see you again. So I wrote you something and left it on your porch.

It said:

“You once told me,

‘We can never predict our own ability to feel things larger than ourselves.’

It meant something else back then.

But now, it means I’m ready to try again — not just with anyone. With you.

I want everything we missed. I want the white picket fence.

And I want to die last, so you won’t die alone.

If you still want to dive in — I’ll be at the frozen lake.”

— J.S.

Author’s Note

If this story moved you, I share more letters, lost love, and memory-soaked prose on my Substack. You can find them here: https://jonsantana.substack.com/

Thank you for reading.