The white seats were bleak plastic, the bottom of the train screeched past the railings, and my coat hugged my body, eliminating the breezes that could pierce shivers to my skin. He sat across from me, eyes locked, and my hair electrocuted off my head. That night, I told him. I confessed that he was a fireplace to me, longing to snuggle up close; his smile was my light instead of the sun, and his laugh bore fairies. My heart pattered uncontrollably, but hearing his voice made it stop – made everything stop. I told him his hair reminded me of sweet chocolate, and his skin was the infant snow. I loved him, and that’s all I knew. Except, of course, I didn’t say any of this out loud. I sat there, staring and embracing all I can of him. Because after this train stops, we would depart like every other evening.