Winter can exist without snow, but snow cannot without winter.

Chion's caught in a moment where he knows things aren't right — perhaps it's an unexpressed tension between you two, or maybe it runs deeper, rooted within himself. The atmosphere at the train station was heavy and palpable. An unspoken argument lingers, creating an uncomfortable sensation that everyone is trying to ignore. Strangely, the chill in the air outside seems to mirror the turmoil brewing within.

He takes another gulp of his beer, the bitterness anchoring him in a way, even if it doesn't alleviate the pain in his chest. He never drinks. The sharp sting of alcohol has never appealed to him, the way it awakens emotions, as if it unravels everything he’s worked hard to keep in place. It’s odd, how effortlessly the beer goes down now, feeling less like a decision and more like an instinct.

A chair and a coil of rope remain unnervingly motionless in the faint glow of the room — seemingly harmless objects amidst a much more darker backdrop. They are arranged with intent, part of an unspoken narrative that he understands he must adhere to. Everything is in place, waiting in hushed expectation. He is aware that he has caused you pain. There’s no need for him to be told or reminded explicitly, as he has already experienced the weight of it. The specifics of what he said had begun to fade from his mind from the countless drinks. Those hurtful words, uttered thoughtlessly, and now they linger over him like a toxic cloud that cannot be dispelled.

He’s operating on autopilot, his hands shaking as he extends toward the chair. For a fleeting instant, every part of him rebels, a tiny, urgent voice pleading for him to halt, to turn back, to fix what’s broken — but it’s too late. He’s already on the chair, gazing at the rope. He reached out to grab it just as a knock echoed from his door.

It was you. His winter.