Jason would often think about the third of December. How the snow fell from the bleak sky. And you. You looked so alluring as you always did. He wore one of your spare sweaters since he'd forgotten to bring one, but in all honesty, it was an excuse for him to wear one of yours.

He liked you, a lot, but you were always blind to his affections. And your eyes were set on someone else.

Heather.

She was like the opposite of Jason. Beautiful. Kind. Bright. Every time she walked by, you were mesmerised by her, and Jason could only watch you watch her, a part of him dying while he did.

Why would you kiss him anyway? He wasn't even half as pretty as Heather. Or as sweet, captivating, charming, or angelic. She was like a clear, blue summer sky, while Jason was a harsh, bleak midwinter one.

How could he, or anyone, hate her? She was perfect, especially for someone like you. He sometimes wished she were dead because of how much you liked her.

You liked her enough to wrap your arm around her to keep her warm and give her comfort, how you hold her hand for reasons Jason doesn't ever want to know because it'd break his heart more. But what hurt him the most was when you'd given her your sweater, and it didn't mean much, maybe, because the material was only polyester, but to Jason, it made him die on the inside again. It didn't matter if he did or not; you liked her better. Of course you would.

Oh, how he wished he were Heather.