A Concession to Frost

Amidst the stark beauty of a Winnipeg winter, Elizabeth grapples with the lingering ghosts of past decisions and the unexpected warmth of a shared moment in Central Park, finding an uncertain comfort in the cold.

The cold had a way of clearing my head, even if it replaced the usual clutter with a sharp, stinging clarity. Each breath was a miniature cloud, a visible testament to the air’s bite, and I watched them drift away, temporary and gone, much like a lot of things these days. What was it about winter that made everything feel so final, yet so pregnant with possibility?

My boots crunched a rhythm onto the compacted snow, a monotonous beat that allowed my thoughts to wander, to circle back to the same familiar cul-de-sacs. Another email from the U of T program sat in my inbox, unread, mocking me with its subject line. *“Follow-Up Regarding Your Application Status.”* Application status. It was more like my life status: pending. Always pending.

I kicked at a snowdrift piled against the base of a particularly gnarled oak, sending a spray of white powder into the still air. The park, usually a vibrant hub, was hushed, surrendered to the season. Only a few hardy souls, bundled beyond recognition, dared brave its frozen pathways. I preferred it this way, the quiet, the feeling of the world having paused its usual rush. It gave me space to consider the ‘what-ifs,’ which were, admittedly, becoming a heavy burden.

What if I had just said yes? What if I hadn't hesitated, hadn't weighed every single variable until the opportunity felt less like a chance and more like a mathematical equation I was bound to fail? The 'what-ifs' were a disease, infectious and insidious, eating away at the present with their phantom limbs reaching back from an imagined past.

A sudden shadow fell beside me, long and gangly in the weak light. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of faint pine and something distinctly *Liam* – that clean, almost metallic smell of winter air on worn wool – preceded him.

“Thinking about anything important, or just admiring the artistic merits of a frozen dog turd?” Liam's voice was a low rumble, surprisingly warm despite the cold, his tone laced with that familiar, easy humour that always managed to disarm me.

I finally turned, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and a few snowflakes clung to the dark curls escaping from under his toque. His eyes, the colour of deep pond water, held a knowing glint. He knew me too well.

“Just contemplating the existential dread of unread emails,” I confessed, shoving my gloved hands deeper into my coat pockets. “And the general bleakness of my future.”

Liam scoffed, a puff of steam escaping his lips. “Dramatic much? Come on, you know it’s never as bad as your inner monologue makes it out to be. Besides, you just got here, I was actually looking for you.”

“Looking for me? Why?” My eyebrows raised slightly. We hadn't made plans. My walks were usually a solitary affair, a self-imposed exile from the city’s demands.

“Thought you might appreciate the company,” he said simply, falling into step beside me. His gait was long and unhurried, perfectly matching mine. “And I actually have news. The good kind, I think.”

My stomach did a funny little flip. Good news for Liam always felt like a double-edged sword these days. Good for him often meant a potential change for *us*, for the comfortable orbit we’d established around each other since high school. An orbit that had only recently begun to feel less like friendship and more like something teetering on the edge of a new gravitational pull.

“Spill,” I prompted, trying to keep my voice light, casual.

“The architecture firm in Calgary,” he began, his voice taking on a slightly more serious, almost nervous edge. “They, uh… they made an offer. A real one. Junior associate, benefits, the whole nine yards.”

I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. The pale light seemed to catch the tiny ice crystals in the air around us, making it feel momentarily sacred, fragile. “Liam! That’s… that’s incredible. Seriously. That’s what you’ve been working for, right?” My voice was genuinely enthusiastic, a thrill shooting through me, quickly followed by a dull ache.

He nodded, a cautious smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a big deal. The kind of opportunity I probably won’t see again for a while, especially not here. Winnipeg’s not exactly a hub for cutting-edge sustainable urban design.” He laughed, a short, self-deprecating sound.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed, my gaze sweeping over the familiar, snow-covered landscape of the park. It was beautiful in its own way, this city, with its stoic beauty and brutal winters. But it wasn't a place that screamed 'future.' Not for people like us, maybe.

---

### The Weight of an Open Hand

We started walking again, the rhythm of our steps now a little out of sync. He was waiting, I knew, for me to say something more, something substantial. Something beyond a polite congratulations. He always did.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked, finally, the question feeling heavy on my tongue. It felt less like I was asking about his plans and more about mine.

Liam shrugged, his shoulders hunching a little against the cold. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a good offer. A *really* good offer. And it’s what I’ve wanted. To build something, you know? To be part of something bigger than just… what’s here.” He gestured vaguely at the empty park, at the city beyond its frozen borders.

I understood that longing. It was the same one that had me drafting and redrafting that email to Toronto, the one that kept me up at night, wondering if I was brave enough to pull the trigger. But understanding it didn’t make the prospect of him leaving any easier. It felt like another brick added to the wall I was building between myself and any truly bold move.

“It’s a long way,” I said, almost to myself.

“Calgary? Yeah, but it’s not the moon,” he countered, his voice a little softer now. “And it’s not like I’d just disappear. We have video calls, don’t we? And flights aren’t *that* bad.” He was trying to reassure me, I knew, but it felt hollow, a flimsy shield against the inevitable distance.

“What about your family?” I asked, clutching at straws, perhaps. Liam was close with his parents, his younger sister. The thought of him leaving them, too, felt… jarring.

“They get it,” he said, a sigh escaping with the words. “They’re sad, of course. But they want me to do what’s best. And I think… I think this is it.” He paused, then turned his head, his gaze searching mine. “What do *you* think?”

The question hung in the air, weighted with unspoken expectations. My own uncertainty felt like a physical thing, a knot in my chest. What *did* I think? Part of me, the small, scared part, wanted to beg him to stay. To tell him that my hesitant feelings for him, feelings that had only recently begun to blossom into something real, something vulnerable, were worth staying for. To tell him that the familiarity, the comfort of knowing he was always here, was a kind of warmth that even this brutal winter couldn’t extinguish.

But another part, the part that felt the pressure of that unread email, the part that yearned for the unknown, for the growth that only comes from discomfort, screamed at me to be honest. To tell him that he should go. That we both should. That staying here, tethered to the familiar, might be the biggest mistake of all.

I looked away, towards the distant skyline of downtown, the few tall buildings piercing the muted sky like cold, indifferent needles. “I think… I think you have to do what’s right for you, Liam. What’s going to make you happy. What’s going to make you feel like you’re actually *doing* something with all that… talent.” The words felt inadequate, a poor substitute for the swirling chaos in my mind.

---

### A Frozen Promise

He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the whisper of the wind through the remaining dry leaves on a few tenacious oak branches. I braced myself for disappointment, for the accusation that I wasn't fighting for us, for *him*. But when he finally spoke, his voice was just a shade softer than before.

“Yeah,” he said, simply. “I guess that’s what I have to do. But… I was hoping you’d say something else.” His honesty was a punch to the gut, gentle but firm. It was typical Liam, always forthright, always willing to lay his cards on the table, even when I kept mine hidden.

My gaze finally met his again. There was no anger there, no blame. Just a deep, abiding sadness, and something else… a question. An open invitation. His hand, still gloved, reached out, hovering briefly before gently covering mine where it rested on my pocket. The warmth, even through the layers of fabric, was immediate, startling.

“I don’t know what else to say, Liam,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper, a raw edge to it. “I’m scared. Scared of staying, scared of leaving. Scared of… of changing everything, or of changing nothing.”

He squeezed my hand lightly, his thumb tracing a small pattern on the back of my glove. “We could figure it out, Elizabeth. We always have. What if… what if we figure it out together?” His eyes held mine, earnest and hopeful, a familiar plea that resonated deep within me.

The wind picked up, swirling a flurry of snow around our feet. The city sounds seemed to recede, leaving us in a bubble of cold air and unspoken feelings. My heart was thrumming, a frantic bird trapped in my ribs. His offer was tempting, a warm blanket against the encroaching chill of uncertainty. To have him, to have *us*, to face the future side by side, even if it meant a new city, a new life, away from the familiar, away from what I thought I had to escape.

But the thought of Toronto, of that anonymous university campus, of a life built entirely by my own design, without the familiar anchor of Liam, still pulled at me. Was it selfishness? Or was it necessary? Did I need to find out who I was, truly, before I could figure out who *we* could be?

I looked at his kind, worried face, his eyes full of a quiet hope that both warmed and terrified me. The decision, I knew, felt impossibly close, like a breath held too long. It was there, on the tip of my tongue, a word that would either tether us or set us adrift. But for now, amidst the quiet snow, the only thing I could offer was a shared glance, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of winter, and the vast, unsettling expanse of a future we still hadn’t chosen.

I squeezed his hand back, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the sharp, exhilarating terror of two separate paths converging, or perhaps, diverging further.