The Weight of White

John hadn't meant to be awake. Not at three in the morning, definitely not. But his head buzzed with numbers, the kind that didn't add up, the kind that kept him stapled to the worn armchair in the living room, staring at nothing. The house creaked around him, settling, shifting, like an old woman sighing in her sleep. He’d tried counting sheep once, that was a laugh. Ended up counting overdue notices and the tuition for Lily’s art school, which felt like a kick in the gut every time it crossed his mind. The thermostat clicked off, plunging the air into a deeper chill, a feeling that settled into his bones.

Then he saw it. First, a single, lazy flake drifting past the window, then another, a ghost against the streetlamp's halo. Soon, a silent procession began. Big, wet flakes, not the tiny stinging kind, but soft, gentle things, piling up on the window ledge, clinging to the branches of the oak tree like delicate white bandages. The world outside, usually a grumble of distant traffic even at this hour, went mute. The snow ate the sound. It swallowed the hum of the city, the sigh of the wind, even the faint, anxious thumping in John's own chest. A suffocating kind of peace.

He pushed himself up, joints popping like old floorboards, and shuffled to the window. Pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The street was already a blank canvas, the cars parked along the curb wearing pristine white cloaks. He could barely make out the lines between the sidewalk and the street. Everything blurred, softened. He thought of Sarah, asleep upstairs, her breathing probably slow and even, unlike his own ragged gasps that always felt too shallow. They hadn't argued, not really, not shouting. Just this slow, quiet drift apart, like continents moving over millennia, imperceptible day to day but undeniable over time. Little things. Her silence when he spoke about work. His grunted responses when she asked about his day. The way they ate dinner, two strangers across a table.

He glanced at the framed photos on the mantelpiece, a line of smiling faces, frozen in time. Lily, all gap-toothed grins at six, now seventeen and full of sharp angles and quiet rage. Tom, a wild-haired eleven-year-old, caught mid-scream on a roller coaster, now buried under a mountain of video games and adolescent angst. Had he ever really known them? Or were they just extensions of this struggle, this unending push to keep the roof over their heads, food on the table, and a semblance of a future open for them? The weight of it felt heavier than any snow.

A floorboard creaked above him, a softer sound than his own protests. He held his breath. Sarah. Her shadow appeared at the top of the stairs, then her small, bundled form, her hair a mess, a sweater wrapped tight. She stopped, saw him by the window. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, flickered from him to the snow, then back again. No words. Just that shared space, the silence of the house broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible whisper of falling snow outside.

“Can’t sleep,” he mumbled, the words feeling clumsy, too loud in the stillness. She nodded, a slight dip of her chin. She walked past him, to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water. He watched her back, the curve of her spine, the way her shoulders seemed to carry their own invisible load. She didn’t offer him one. He didn’t ask. It wasn’t a spiteful thing, just… routine. Separate cups, separate worries. She leaned against the counter, sipping, looking out at the same white world.

“It’s really coming down,” she said, her voice raspy, a low murmur. He just grunted in agreement. What else was there to say? It was coming down alright. Burying everything. He pictured their little Subaru out there, lost under a mound of white, the tires useless, the engine cold. Just like everything else. He thought of the furnace needing a repair, the car insurance due. The list felt endless, a blizzard in his head that never stopped.

She finished her water, set the glass down with a tiny clink that seemed to explode in the quiet. Then, she walked past him again, her hand brushing his arm, a feather-light touch, maybe accidental, maybe not. He didn't look at her, kept his gaze fixed on the endless, silent fall. He heard her climb the stairs, felt the house settle back into its familiar, watchful stillness. He stayed there, by the window, watching the world disappear, flake by slow, deliberate flake.

The streetlights cast long, orange shadows across the pristine blanket. He imagined walking out there, just stepping into it, letting it cover him, too. No sound. No bills. Just the cold, clean weight. But then he saw a faint light flicker in Lily’s window upstairs, a quick flash, probably her phone. Tom’s room was dark. He pictured them, his kids, asleep or pretending to be. He pictured Sarah, back in their bed. He closed his eyes, felt the prickle behind them. The snow kept falling.