Little Fires in a Frosted Heart

There was once a time when I used to feel everything too much. The ache of a goodbye, the thrill of a look, the pulse of a song it all lived inside me like a thunderstorm just waiting to happen.

But the winters came and stayed longer each year. Not in the weather, no the weather outside was never the issue. It was the cold inside. Somewhere along the way, between heartbreaks, goodbyes, and the endless quiet that follows an unanswered message, my heart grew cold. Not out of anger. Not even out of sadness. Just… protection.

And so I carried a frosted heart not frozen, but cold enough to stop the flooding.

I met him at a bookstore, in the poetry aisle. He had a scarf that looked like it had seen many winters, a smile that came with a bit of shyness, and eyes that didn’t look through me like most people’s did.

“You like Rupi Kaur?” he asked, noticing the book in my hand.

I nodded, trying to keep my voice even. “She says the things I’m too afraid to say out loud.”

He smiled, as if he knew exactly what that meant. “I get that.”

We didn’t exchange numbers that day. Just smiles. But that moment stayed like an ember on a cold night glowing quietly.

He started showing up more always near the same shelf, pretending to browse. We’d talk for minutes, then longer. And then one rainy evening, over hot coffee and quiet jazz, he told me about his mother. How she had passed during a November storm and how every year since, he felt that storm in his chest.

“Grief has seasons,” he said. “But sometimes, one of them lasts a lifetime.”

I looked at him, and for a second, I forgot about my frozen walls. I felt the warmth of understanding. His pain made room for mine. And I realized: sometimes it’s not the grand gestures that melt the ice it’s small, steady flames.

Days became weeks. We started calling each other “home” in small ways. He would bring me wildflowers from corners of the city I’d never seen. I would write poems I never meant to share and read them to him in whispers.

I never told him about my frost. I didn’t have to. He saw it in my hesitation, in the way I flinched at tenderness. But he never pushed. Instead, he lit small fires.

When I couldn’t sleep, he stayed up sending me songs. When I cried without explaining, he held silence with both hands, not asking questions. When I told him I wasn’t sure if I was capable of love anymore, he said:

“Maybe love doesn’t need to be sure. Maybe it just needs to be real.”

But fire is a wild thing.

It gives warmth. It burns. It needs air, space. It flickers with every change in wind.

I started noticing it: the way I was pulling away, even as I wanted to stay. The way I was doubting something that had never given me a reason to fear. I had spent so long surviving with a frozen heart that the idea of warmth felt dangerous. Like something I could lose.

And so, one day, I stopped answering. First his message. Then his call. Then another. Until silence grew thick between us like frost on glass.

Weeks passed. I pretended I was okay.

I busied myself with old routines. Made tea I didn’t drink. Watched sunsets I didn’t feel. My heart, once flickering, was cold again safer, I told myself. Quieter.

Then one day, while organizing my drawer, I found a note. His handwriting.

“You don’t have to burn bright for me. I’ll still stay. Even the smallest spark is enough.”

I read it again. And again. Until the tears came, fast and unforgiving.

Because I realized: I had let go of something rare. Someone who saw my cold not as rejection, but as a place where fire still tried to live.

That night, I walked to the bookstore. I didn’t know why — maybe out of hope. Or guilt. Or both.

He wasn’t there. But the poetry shelf was.

I stood there, staring at the spot we used to meet, heart heavy with all the things I didn’t say.

A voice behind me broke the silence.

“I still read Kaur. Still waiting for someone to tell me what I’m too afraid to say.”

I turned.

He looked the same maybe a little more tired, maybe a little more guarded.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He didn’t speak right away. But his eyes softened, and he reached into his coat.