# Winter's Not the Reason, It's the Heart's Urgency The letter came on a Tuesday morning when the city still wore its grey skin. I remember because that's when I always went to check the mailbox—Tuesday mornings, between the tea and the newspaper. Habit, you see, is a strange companion. It brings you to the right place at exactly the right moment, then leaves you standing there, undone. The envelope was cream-colored, expensive-looking, with my name written in a hand I recognized immediately. Not from how it looked, but from how it made my chest tighten. Some recognitions bypass the eyes entirely. I didn't open it at once. I stood there in the hallway of my apartment, holding it like it might combust, and I thought about winter—though it was only autumn then. I thought about how people always blame the season when they can't sleep, when they drink too much coffee, when they decide to write letters they've been composing in their minds for years. It wasn't winter. It was never winter. --- The first line was enough: *"I'm leaving the city on the 15th."* Not "I thought I should tell you." Not "I wanted you to know." Just that. The certainty of it. The cruelty of certainty. I sat on the edge of my bed—unmade, as it had been for three days—and read the rest slowly, as if reading slowly could change the words. It couldn't. Words are democratic that way. They stay the same regardless of your pace, your prayers, your desperation. She wrote about the job offer in Delhi. About how it was time for a change. About how she'd realized, finally, that some things aren't meant to be solved by proximity or conversation or good intentions. About how she'd tried, God knows she'd tried, but that trying had become its own kind of lie. "It's not that I don't love you," she'd written. "It's that I love myself more, and I've only just learned to say that without shame." I read that sentence seven times. By the seventh time, I wasn't sure if I was angry or proud. Both, maybe. Anger and pride are closer cousins than we like to admit. --- The apartment was too quiet. I turned on the radio—some talk show about relationships, how ironic—and paced between the bedroom and the kitchen, neither going anywhere, both demanding movement. My hands did useless things: straightened books that didn't need straightening, wiped a counter that was already clean, filled a glass of water I wouldn't drink. There were six days until the 15th. Six days until she got on a train and became someone I used to know. Six days to decide whether I'd ask her to stay, whether I'd go to the station to see her off, whether I'd burn this letter or keep it pressed between pages like people do with flowers that meant something once. The truth is, I'd known this was coming. Not consciously, not in words. But the way you know a season is ending—in your bones, in the particular quality of light, in how the birds have already begun their leaving. We'd been moving toward this goodbye for months now, tiptoeing around it, building it brick by brick out of small silences and smaller comforts. She'd just been the one brave enough to name it. And perhaps that's the thing that hurt most—not that she was leaving, but that she was leaving because she'd finally stopped waiting for me to become the kind of person who could fight for us. She'd stopped because I never did. --- I called her on Thursday. We didn't fight. We did something worse—we were polite. We discussed logistics like two colleagues wrapping up a project. Where would she store her books? Would I keep the plants? When exactly was her departure time? All of it conducted in the tone of people discussing someone else's life. Toward the end, I asked her: "Do you want me to come to the station?" There was a silence. Then: "Only if you want to." "I don't know what I want anymore," I said, and it was the truest thing I'd said in months. "I know," she replied. And somehow, that was worse than anger. That was pity. --- The 15th came grey and cold, and I thought about how people always blame the season. How we say "I'm sad because of winter" or "I'll feel better in spring" as if the weather were something separate from ourselves, as if our hearts weren't already small winters, already beginning their own thaw. I didn't go to the station. I stayed in the apartment and rewrote the things I should have said, things about how love sometimes means letting someone go, how the heart's urgency is not always the same as its wisdom, how some people must leave in order to live. I looked at her letter again, at those sentences about not solving things with proximity. She was right. You can't solve something that was never broken to begin with. You can only move past it, as people do. You can only become someone new in a city where no one knows your old self. Outside, it wasn't winter. But it felt like it. It felt like the world contracting, like everything beautiful and difficult taking its leave. Like standing at the edge of a season you can never quite get back. Some people blame winter for their sorrows. Some people know it's only themselves, standing still while the world moves on, waiting for a reason that never comes. It wasn't winter that took her away. It was the heart's urgency. Hers, and my terrible silence in answer to it.

Days ago I said I'd steal everything from you if I got the chance; today I want to say something different—I won't steal you, I'll earn you. I don't know how, I've never done it before, but I know this much: I won't lose. I read somewhere once that love conquers all…I believe that too. But I also believe this—even if you can conquer everything, you can't conquer the heart of a deceiver. If someone has already made up their mind that no matter what I do, they'll accept it, but I can never hold it in myself; I'll walk beside them, but I won't become them…because such a person has no real heart to speak of, or else they don't understand the honesty a relationship demands. I've never loved someone like that. I suppose I've grown accustomed to reading people, or maybe I've learned something from losing, from being cheated, from stumbling and falling. She's taught me through all of it. Today I want to tell you something from before. Do you remember the first day we spoke on the phone? That day? I called you, and you picked up. I didn't know anything about you then, and I had no idea you'd be so playful with me right from that first conversation. I called you by name, I was looking for you, and you said you were the assistant of the person I was searching for! Then the first time I came to see you in person, it was quite late—almost eight at night, and it was a winter night just like this one. The moment I got off the bus, you hurried through introductions and took me straight to have something sweet, to a sweet shop. Then I spent a long time beside you—nearly an hour and a half. I remember how good it felt to walk next to you. It was wonderful that day. But somehow the time to go home came too quickly, and I had to leave you. I missed you so much that night. You kept coming to my mind. Since it was our first meeting, I couldn't really say anything; if I'd said I was missing you, it would have sounded so strange!

Do you remember? The next morning you called me very early—around seven. Then you asked me to come over. I came right away. There was someone else in the room, and you sent them out on some excuse, and I could breathe again. I felt so irritated about spending time with you in front of a stranger. Though we didn't really talk much then—maybe five minutes. After that, others slowly started arriving. How strange and wonderful it felt to get that call from you that morning…you know, after that I kept thinking every day, this is it, you're going to call…from that very first moment with you, I received more than I asked for, more than I dared hope for. Your unspoken love…whether it was love or just attraction, whatever it was…I kept wanting to know again and again if you missed me the way I missed you. I remember, as long as you were in my city, I felt so happy, I wanted to laugh. As long as I was beside you, even that wasn't enough to fill my heart—I wanted just a little more time with you. When you left alone with them the next afternoon, I felt terrible not being able to go with you.

# Untitled Letter

You went around with the others, and perhaps you didn’t miss me—why would you, after all? I wasn’t anyone particularly close to you then. We didn’t know each other that well. But when you came back from being with them, you sent me a text saying “missing you,” and the moment that message landed, everything dissolved—all the hurt of not being there with you, of not being able to go along, all the sting of it, all the quiet anger.

I say anger because you could have told them, couldn’t you? You could have asked to bring me. But you didn’t. And even when your work ended that evening, you gave me no time at all. I remember how they practically dragged you away from me to have tea. I left for home a little hurt, nursing that wound. It gnawed at me—the thought that I might never get you to myself like that again. Then when you asked me to come along for an evening walk, like some excuse, that anger just… vanished. Walking beside you that night, for as long as we walked together, felt like such a gift. I kept wishing we could stretch that time, make it longer. My family kept calling from home, over and over, but I didn’t want to leave either. What could I do? I couldn’t even tell you that. When you left the next day, we didn’t see each other again. I thought then that perhaps we never would. That I’d never have you close like that again. And yet—without even asking for it, without really hoping for much—I had you. You got on the bus late that night, around one in the morning it must have been. I didn’t have the courage to call and ask where you were, how you were. Even now, I’m the same. Only perhaps the nature of what we are has shifted.

Tell me, do you know why you always held such a place in me, from the very beginning? Of course, I know nothing about the others. You never told me anything about your feelings. The moments of real joy in my life have always been so few, and most of what little I had was all on the surface, all outside. In school, in college, I was always out, always away. I’d stay out as much as I could, try to be out as much as possible. As long as I was out, I was okay. I didn’t want to go home. I had to go because there was nowhere else to be, so I went home. I’ve always been someone who avoids trouble, and I learned early—learned too well—to give up a lot, to be content, the moment trouble seemed possible. My rule is simple. I’m willing to compromise, to let things go, if it means I can be at peace, if it means no discord. So perhaps I never learned how to fight for what’s mine. But does that mean I got nothing? This fight I never had to win you, this closeness I somehow got—has anyone else ever had you the way I have? I did get you. I got you before too. You gave me yourself before, but I didn’t understand. Do you remember another day? You canceled something because I asked you to come. You know what I did that day? I waited and waited for you, and when I heard you were coming, I cried the whole night through—tears of joy. Then the next day, when you didn’t come, I didn’t understand why, but it hurt terribly. I’d been hoping. I’d been waiting.

Why did you forbid me that day? Do you remember?

Even now, whenever I manage to have you for a little while, something stirs in me—a peculiar kind of affection I can’t quite put into words. Some things, you know, simply fall short when you try to speak them aloud. Now when you tell me you love me, my heart refuses to believe it—I wonder if I’ve heard you right! Why are the moments I spend with you always so fleeting? Why can’t I have more of you? Those who hurt you, those who don’t love you, those who don’t even think much of your presence—they get you effortlessly. And yet, look at me: I’ve wept and gasped, and still I don’t have you at all. When will I have you? Those who easily find their way to you have perhaps never touched the pain of not having you. If they had, they would understand what it feels like to be without you! Then they’d never treat you carelessly the way they do. The greatest gift I’ve received from you is simply your presence, having you. If ever you want to give me something, if you want to see me happy, then just bring yourself to me, and know that nothing—nothing—could make me happier than that. You might think I’m saying this to win your heart, but truly, I want nothing else from you, nor do I expect anything. Be well, my little heartbird!

I’ve missed you so much today, bird. You’re not good. Not good at all. I didn’t bother you all day, but you didn’t even text me once. You’re such a bad person! Golden bird, you understand nothing at all. I want to talk to you—you don’t even get that. I come here for you—you don’t understand that either. You only understand when I break it down for you, when I fall apart explaining. Why? What would happen if you just understood a little on your own? Can’t everything be said? Isn’t everything worth saying? You don’t know that I ever… where would I go? Who would I turn to? Why do you speak so little? Can’t you talk to me that much? Can’t you send me that many texts? Can’t you drive me mad talking all day long? When my heart is terribly heavy, when nothing feels right, I look toward you, I see your picture, every moment we’ve spent together, and the feelings from those moments come rushing back. Then before I know it, I’m laughing by myself, and I can’t even understand why. In those moments, all that pain feels like such a tiny thing. When I saw yesterday that you’d used my favorite picture on your profile, I felt such joy! It made me happy because you were thinking of me, because you knew that seeing it would make me deeply happy. Of course it made me happy—I have a hundred reasons to be happy, reasons you don’t even know about. You don’t know how much your smallest words delight me. Just the other day you said, “I love you, so nothing you do bothers me.” Reading those words, something strange moved within me. I thought: why did I deserve this much? I never even asked for this much! Sometimes the way you say certain things—you say them in a way that brings tears to my eyes. Why do you speak like that? I still don’t have the strength to bear this much!

Lately I think: you’re such a terrible lover!

I’m not asking who you are as a person anymore. You heard my heart wasn’t well, you heard half the reason why, and didn’t it occur to you—shouldn’t you have said at least something to comfort me, to show you cared? Something. Anything! You didn’t even call. You never call on your own, never. Once every hundred days, maybe, and even then you measure your words, weigh them out like currency. Even after knowing my heart was breaking, you said nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’ve done this before too, just sat silent while I drowned. And that’s when it hits me—not them, not anyone, but you. You’re the farthest person in my life. When does someone close to us matter most? In pain, isn’t it? Or do we save our need for the easy days, when everything flows smooth and simple? You decide. You’re the wise one. Tell me, and I’ll listen. But the day I think, “That’s it, I’m done talking”—the day I don’t send you a goodbye message—can’t you just let me go? And if you can’t let me go that day, then don’t reply to any goodbye message at all. Then it’s settled.

Look at me. I’m becoming this quarrelsome thing because I love you. That’s not me. Quarreling doesn’t suit me. Not at all. But listen—I can’t swallow these words. They’ll come out of my mouth whether I want them to or not. I put up with so much from you. You have to put up with this from me. Fair? And you don’t know that when you’re here, I don’t need anyone else? Then why won’t you give me time? I won’t talk to them, won’t befriend them, won’t even say hello. After a few hellos, they start proposing to me, and then I have to run from them constantly or they’ll pester me endlessly. So don’t ever ask me to spend time with someone else, to talk to them. I won’t accept that. You can choose silence if you want, do what you like, but don’t ask me to do such a thing. You can go to someone else for your body’s needs—body and mind are different things. But don’t ever let your love and trust in me be divided. Let me say one more thing. If someday someone comes into your life—real love, I mean—don’t hesitate to tell me. With time, the heart changes its needs. I know that. I won’t judge you badly. Don’t stay with me out of pity, thinking I’ll suffer. If I’ve become boring, let me know. I’ll welcome you into your new life without complaint or reproach. Love is something vast, I think. It doesn’t come easy. Being close to someone is not the same as loving them. You don’t need love to kiss. Love isn’t on the lips—it’s in the eyes. Whoever receives that love is lucky.

But it seems to me that whoever can love is luckier still. You can’t love just anyone, anytime. That’s not love—that’s using someone when you need them, satisfying your body’s hunger. That’s not love.

# A Letter on Love

The feeling of being able to love—it’s heavenly. Just think of someone you’ve loved deeply, truly loved, and see how heavenly it feels! But then think of someone who loves you, and see what happens. You’ll notice it doesn’t stir the same extraordinary sensation. If you don’t believe me, take five minutes and try it. You’ll understand. It’s a strange, wonderful kind of affection! There are people around us all the time who love us, but how many can we actually love? Count them. Can you make yourself love just anyone you choose? No matter how hard you try, you can’t summon feelings for every person you meet. So tell me—who is luckier: the one who receives love, or the one who can give it? Whenever I think of the person I love, my heart just begins to smile. There’s such an exquisite feeling. Thinking of them brings joy, brings peace. Infinite strength comes rushing into my mind and body from nowhere. I begin to feel… if I think of them, if I live for them, I could conquer the whole world. I must live, and I can live holding them in my heart. I can spend a whole lifetime this way. The wish that they be well—it comes naturally, without asking. Even seeing them smile from afar, seeing them happy, brings such peace. Though I know I may never have them, I want to live for them still.

The believers find happiness and solace in prayer, much as the one who loves finds themselves in a similar kind of experience. Whether they love me back or not—why torment myself with such questions? The feeling that I trust someone enough to live for them—it’s truly priceless! You know, I don’t love easily. Not at all. I’ve always wished that life would bring someone I could spend it with, someone I could cling to and squander my entire existence for. Many people can organize their lives for someone, but how many get to live with someone they could utterly consume their life for? You are that person for me. In this, I am the fortunate one! You do not need to love me back, just give me the golden chance to love you! After you’ve given yourself to your family, your work, your writing—whatever time remains, that extra surplus of hours—give me that. Don’t keep me busy, and don’t even keep me occupied in your leisure. Just keep me for those moments when you have nothing else to do, when you’re simply discarding time…I’ll be happy with that! I don’t need your sense of duty or obligation toward me. I’ve never complained, and I won’t. But I have one request: try to keep me from falling into depression, from feeling down. I’m intelligent enough, and I’ll say it plainly without vanity—depression alone is what holds me back. I’ve carried severe depression since I was very small. You can wage war with force against anything in the world, but fighting your own depression isn’t easy. I’ve been in acute depression for the last seven or eight years. When you’re here, I stay largely depression-free. For me, that’s an enormous gift. I want to emerge from this depression. I want to live, to truly live—at any cost!

And listen, I quarrel with you—I’ll do it a hundred times, what of it? I quarrel, don’t I? Well, I do. But tell me—if you were here with me right now, at this very moment of our argument, would I make such a fuss? Would I quarrel with you then?

I would have done it… but only after you became as essential to me as rice and fish. And then, once you were that necessary, if you didn’t listen to me, if you didn’t follow my words, I wouldn’t just quarrel with you—I swear, if I got angry enough, I’d pick you up and hurl you down! That’s why when I’m in a rage, I don’t think it’s safe to have short people around me, and frankly, I don’t want anyone near me at such times, because I might just throw a blow without thinking. And then there’s this—short people have all manner of twisted schemes in their heads; they like to take straightforward matters and tangle them up, wrap them in knots, complicate them beyond recognition (not all of them, of course). But me? I don’t understand all those complications. I prefer the direct path. What I need, I go and get it straight. But you’re not short anymore, so there’s no need to worry. Besides, I could never have the strength to lift you now! Instead, when I get terribly angry at you, when I feel like throwing you down, why don’t you just pick me up and hurl me down instead? And after I’m dead, you can cry for yourself.

I’m a goat, aren’t I? Don’t know anything about studies, barely scraped through an honors and master’s degree with some half-baked subject, right? Wait—let me show you how much studying I actually do. Those books themselves look at me with contempt, as if I can’t finish them! Wait, those books… if I don’t memorize every single page of them, I’ll forget my own name, I’ll make myself forget! Those books I bought with thousands of my own money, now they look at me with pity, saying I don’t know how to read, never have read. I never read? Then who passed my SSC and HSC? Did someone else cheat for me, write my answers, get me through back then? I didn’t even have a familiar face sitting next to me, let alone a friend! And I never once peeked at anyone else’s paper. The teachers came, and I still remember this… one girl sitting next to me, a teacher brought her a piece of paper with the whole rearrangement exercise written out and stood there making her copy it, and then another duty teacher came and showed her the entire grammar section, stood there while she copied it all down! And after the teacher left, the other girls sitting near her pounced on her and copied everything she’d written—did I even glance that way? So what of it? Didn’t I pass? And now these books scare me, mock me! I’ll show them what’s what! Hmph!

Hold me close, cherish me gently… why do you look at me with such tenderness?
Then why do you slip away, stealing the morning sleep from my eyes?

Why aren’t you the deep, sturdy roots of a flowering garden,
Why does a cloud’s shadow scheme to steal away your joy?

Why sit down and write like this, breaking your own voice for nothing,
Do you want to become like me—a fever from some primal wound?

Why does my sorrow find no other place to settle,
Why don’t my dreams die anymore in the light of day?

Why did I become a Ratnakar floating on air even as I was becoming,
Why did I turn into my own dream’s house of sorrow?

Since the dream is mine, I alone must bear its weight, for the joy of its fulfillment will belong to me more than to anyone else—whoever they may be. Not my parents, not my siblings, not my friends or relatives—none of them will be happier at my success than I am myself. So whatever must be done for this, I must do it alone.

# Letter Literature

I hold no anger, no hatred, no resentment, no grievance against anyone else, because none of them forced me down this path. I chose it myself, of my own accord. I cannot expect anything from anyone. No one else is responsible for my sorrow. If I cannot learn to stand on my own feet, that failure belongs to me alone. I will still have a life, but perhaps not the life I wanted. So the life I desire—I must live it alone, work for it alone, by myself. I will not harbor anger toward anyone, will not suffer on their account. I will create my own chances. If pain comes, if it cuts, I will cry alone, and then everything will mend again…. You are so good, my golden bird. You are not bad at all. You give me so much time. You love me so very much. You are so good, my dear. Don’t be hurt by my words, don’t be angry. Not a single moment passes when I am alone. But you—you must stay with me! Who else is there when you’re not? A ghost? I say so many things without meaning, bird, they have no sense at all.

There was a time I was jealous. Terribly jealous. I couldn’t bear it at all. I was a dreadful weeper. Whenever I saw someone standing beside you taking pictures, laughing, talking with you, my eyes would well up at that exact moment. I couldn’t accept it, yet I couldn’t look away from it either. The images would appear before my eyes again and again, and I couldn’t stand them at all. I’d think, why are they standing so close to you, why are they talking and laughing with you that way, why do they stand pressed so near you, shameless girls that they are! That’s how it was at first. Back then I didn’t understand if this was love or something else, didn’t even try to figure it out—I just couldn’t bear it whenever I saw anyone else beside you, I’d be seized with such crying… I’d actually cry, and it would feel like they were about to take you away from me! They would certainly take you from me. Why was I like that then? Why did it burn inside me to ash? You never understood, and you shouldn’t have had to. Then later, when you added me to your list, I thought, I’ll have to see all that again, have to endure it all again! I can’t bear what I’m seeing, yet I can’t live without seeing it either. Does any of it make sense? What was the point of all that? I was fine staying away! Seeing those things, I can’t bear them, and then the pain just keeps happening. I remember the first day I sat beside you in the car myself—if you’d said no, someone else would have sat down, and then being near you wouldn’t have been possible. That day too I was furiously angry, the way others were standing beside you taking pictures! What’s the point of all those pictures? Of course, in most of them I was beside you anyway. Even now it hurts when I see someone else beside you… it hurts so much to accept it. That place is mine! I’m no angel, after all. Then I ask myself… when did I become so jealous! It was never like this before! Other people’s comings and goings don’t matter to me, not then, not now.

I really don’t care much about anyone at all. I don’t even remember who comes and who goes! No one’s leaving has ever truly stirred what’s inside me.

# Letter to Memory

I remember the day I signed the divorce papers. It felt like mere occurrence, nothing more. And there was no pain because there was nothing to grip, nothing to hold onto in that relationship. Why should it hurt? I got what I wanted—to keep myself whole, to live. What was the point of crying day after day, bound by the mere duty of sustaining something? I felt freed then, rid of the trouble. After that, I never felt the need to keep anyone as intimately mine. I never looked at a person and thought, *I want to spend the rest of my life with them.* I still don’t think it. If anything, the accounting has only grown. Now there’s a terrible fear, a stiffness that kicks in whenever I’m drawn toward anyone. I suppose I don’t take any relationship seriously anymore. Everything that is mine—there’s only me. There’s no inner turmoil of my own. It’s just the people around me who burn me up; their problems become my problems. When I see someone special beside you, something inside me goes strange… I can’t say anything, can’t speak it, have no right to. What cannot be said—that burns the most! My mind thrashes to spill it out, yet I force my mouth shut… What suffering this is! Then I think: if I truly love you, shouldn’t I feel joy seeing you happy, watching you content? Then why does it feel like this? Do I want to keep everything for myself alone? Am I that selfish?

—

The truth is, I have nothing that’s really mine… Does anyone have anything truly theirs? All that people call their own—doesn’t it cause them pain later? So why do I want to hold on to it? If I do, why? Don’t I know how to share my happiness? Or do I want to savor only my own happiness, alone? Yet I wasn’t like this once. I loved giving to everyone, didn’t even care if anything was left for me. How did I become this? And I have no right whatsoever to hold you or bind you. I’m the outsider, really—sitting in someone else’s claim. I’m the one who doesn’t belong. Everyone’s in their rightful place, so why do I hurt? Why am I still hurting? Am I wanting more than what’s due to me? Has the fear of losing you made me this petty in spirit? I never had you to begin with—what fear of losing you is this? I was never someone so small-minded! I’ve always known my place. So what do I actually want? Don’t I want you to be well, to be happy always? Or have I become your greatest enemy? And then I wonder: why does my insides go silent with a thousand such questions? Don’t I know myself then? How did my spirit become this small! Can love be so small? Is this even love, or is it something else?

—

I remember always telling you—I want nothing from you, I ask for nothing. Yet the very same I becomes rebellious without you! I make a terrible fuss, I lodge complaints. But I have no place to lodge them from.

# Letter

Everything I get from you feels like a bonus. That I’m receiving this much at all—isn’t that already too much? There’s a saying, you know: give a man a seat and he’ll want a bed. That’s where I am. Who asked me to keep track of you? Who told me to burn like this, every single day? You never said so. I chose this path of my own accord. And yet the moment a message doesn’t come back, I sit here pouting like I’ve been robbed of what’s mine by right. Why do I do this? Sometimes I’m amazed at my own audacity. You know, whenever I see your picture on my phone screen, I think—oh, how you stare like a child! Looking at me and asking: what’s wrong with you? And I can’t help but smile then. I tell you, nothing’s wrong, my baby bird. And I want to run to you and hold you tight and kiss you. Does anyone look at someone like that? How am I supposed to forget you then? All my doors to forgetting are shut. When you look like that, forgetting, letting go—those are distant dreams. Not even for a moment can I push you out of my mind.

And why would I push you away anyway? Let you stay! You’re my only love, why would I keep you at arm’s length? Stay, then. Do whatever you want. Torment me as much as you like! Who else would do it? Better yet, do it more! My love demands this much—so shouldn’t I only want your happiness, your well-being, no matter how you live? If you’re happy, I don’t need to be part of that happiness. If staying with someone else makes you happy, if that’s how you flourish best, then live that way. If your well-being is what matters most to me, then why do I suffer? Why can’t I convince myself? When will I be able to? I’m grown enough now—so when will I grow wise? Tell me, why do you push me to study so much anyway? I know it’s because if I don’t, I’ll drive you mad—that’s why you say it. It’s just a trick to keep me busy, that’s all. If I study, you’ll be happy, you say. I don’t want that kind of happiness. Fine then, if you think I’m missing you because of the winter chill, go ahead. I’ll spend the whole season without you.