Winter has begun, making every morning the warmest time of day before the temperatures drop, impossibly so as the time passes whilst the darkness seems to linger, sunshine lighting up the barren world for nothing more but a few hours. It is the perfect moment to press the snooze button on the alarm one more time, even though it has gone off twice already, and snuggle up to a beloved as the pitter patter of child's feet head to the parental bedroom.

Instinctively, the body scoots over to the other side of the bed, expecting to find the welcoming arms of the woman who makes life worth living even when the odds are against a fortunate flow. Anticipates unconsciously to place that sweet gentle morning kiss on the top of the head as the embrace is gladly received and she curls into me, burying a sleepy face which does not have a likeness in its beauty even at the crack of dawn in the fabric of the grey sleeping shirt with a V-neck. Awaits the sleepy mumbles that with a bit of effort and straining of hearing translate to a drowsy "good morning" as gradually consciousness is regained and per direct focused on the most precious human standing in the doorway, joining the pair in the sheets to cuddle up with loving parents.

But memory erases all those expectations the moment hands grasp at air and at last land on the thick crisp white duvet dotted with tiny ink-coloured spots, hazy sight perceiving no one is there to greet and slowly yet relentlessly the reason why comes crashing in like a tidal wave.

It was during an evening last month, the streets covered with a packet of freshly fallen snow toned a shade of grey outside of the yellow illuminating circles of the streets lights, painting the icy blanket a shade reminiscent of an egg yolk. The entire day was spent in the office at home working on a new novel, thoughts completely oblivious to the reality outside the door and existence reduced to the four alabaster plaster walls - one entirely concealed by the full bookshelves containing the work of others and those that are self-written - and the macassar floor, a single window enclosed on either side by chocolate milk brown curtains the only link to the world turned towards with ignorance besides the silver MacBook upon the keyboard of which was busily typed to write a couple more chapters of the latest project.

The crying went by unnoticed, the first step towards ruin. Thoughts were too occupied with creating a coherent tale of excellent quality and thus ears were deaf to the muffled lament sounding across the hallway behind another closed door.

The second was ignoring Y/N's pale face that appeared on the threshold and slowly advanced after a knock on the heavy wood of the doorway to draw attention yet finding none, as had been the case for many weeks since seeing the development of the book to completion had the utmost priority.

An idiotic importance that should have shifted upon hearing the meekly spoken words in a trembling voice, a small hand over the bloated stomach. 'I lost the baby.' No reaction, fingers continuing to type with a mind lost in the recent tale. Bare feet padding the floor, closing in on the cluttered with stationary sapale desk behind which a fool of a man carried on penning down fantasies and only looked up from the screen with a scowl due to being interrupted in the creative flow when the left shoulder was shook, speech now dangerously close to cracking and reduced to a whisper. 'Joon, didn't you hear me? I said I lost the baby.'

The statement did not even register before an irritated at being halted during important business reply was given. In hindsight, a pause should have been taken to let the severity of that particular sentence sink in, but at the time I was too caught up in a self-made existence that had to be shared with others. 'I'm kinda busy, Y/N. You know I hate it when I'm disrupted.'

A heavily trembling lower lip, teeth keeping it caged so as not to let the sobs escape, crystal tears flowing from eyes that once regarded this loathsome persona with an astonishing amount of fondness and care over cheeks cupped affectionately multiple times in private and public, caressed them as if they were made of porcelain each time I made love to her, the last time establishing the joyful anticipation of becoming a parent. A step backwards, head shaking in disbelief at the observation of the abomination sitting in the chair where a long-time lover, a sensible person, should sit. 'How can you say that? I thought- I thought you'd care, at least show some emotion instead of being this cold-hearted monster!' Heartbreaking rivers flow over the skin, immediately fulfilling the body with a sense of dread that cages the beast longing for success. However, it that righteous regret dawned too late. 'All you care about is your novel, so much you have neglected our relationship. Have you any idea how many nights I have eaten dinner alone because you're holed up in here? I cannot even remember our last date. How pathetic is that?' A mocking sigh escapes the feeble girl turned halfway to make an exit. 'You know what, there is a silver lining to this. At least our child doesn't have to suffer at the hand of a worthless father. And neither do I have to endure a useless boyfriend.'

The memory of the deafening fashion in which the door was slammed shut after storming off forever before apologies could be made, makes the body flinch and grab the sheets to brace against the sound that is still vividly engraved in the mind. If only the hungering demon inside could have recognized the precious individual before bluntly addressing them with an indifference towards what was so much more significant than the story that it wanted to tell. If only regret had been shown and the road to restoring the deteriorated part of the bond had been started, long and unforgiving as it might have been.

Then Y/N would have been here with me, clinging like a koala to the chest that always functioned like a very much appreciated heat source which offered shelter and calmed the nerves worked up by a busy job as an editor for the publishing house I am contracted under. She used to edit the books created by the hand of the abomination overtaking every sense once a Word document is opened and digits fly over the keys, but fortunately fell in love with the truthful outward disguise like it did with her.

Notwithstanding, now that a silent loneliness greets the hungover self, having drunk yet another night away along with the sorrow, there is finally an understanding of what was meant with the words 'I can't marry a poet'. All this time, the gorgeous beloved had known of the burden accompanying the relationship that would demand attention even if it seemed to be directed towards her, ears merely vaguely catching what was said as vision was clouded with imagination and an urge to indulge in penning those fantasies down instead of remaining in a place so foreign in comparison to the secluded office.

It would be a lie to say the decision is accepted, since the days are filled with repeatings of that dreadful evening and all the possible outcomes had things been done differently, if the deeply-rooted concern for her had been shown and words had been said to provide solace as arms embraced the nymph who felt as if she was nothing more but a husk wandering the earth, causing a fiercely burning anger which can turn rather quickly into a self-loathing sorrow and then is followed by a despising view of the entire situation, ending with the blame found at the source of being consumed with wanting desperately to succeed so that nothing else matters whilst there are many things in life that should. This realization, funnily enough, tends to happen in the company of a few baby blue bottles of imported Japanese soju.

The cruelest part of it all is when we run into each other at the publisher, both of us still having that place having grown wretched in common, when an appointment about the current development of the novel is attended and paths cross in the hallway, parting immediately with an icy glare met by acknowledged shame and an upkeep of the mirage of being mere strangers in passing. The aftermath of this repeated meeting goes by as cold-heartedly unremarked as the notice of the lost offspring had, the lonesome tears shed and muffled sobs escaping the mouth in the corner of the bleak clinical staircase leading to the fire-exit inaudible and concealed from sight to the ears outside focused on bringing tales to the public of the highest quality. Those split seconds of fragile contact are all that remains of the bond we once had, even the job of editing transferred to another, diminishing that last direct link between a broken man whose life is lost and the lady who is trying to find it again via the emails going back and forth now always professionally on-topic instead of stretching the rules a bit by containing a sense of familiarity and genuine openness.

Like the happy photos in the album, created for our third anniversary to reminisce on the years spent together that have flown by, which was thrown in the bright crimson and titian flames in the old Victorian onyx hearth decorated with a flower pattern set into the far wall in the living room after the presence of the beloved disappeared with the bare necessities into the night, never to be seen again in the environment she seemed to belong, we ought to have created what was denied. The memories were already too much to be able to handle on the first day without the gorgeous girl whom I had hoped to change her mind one day about marriage, the thick cream pages slowly turning to ashes as gradually all colours were seared away until nothing but the darkness of charcoal remained. It was done on impulse, stupidly so because it would have given a clear indication as to what the face of our son or daughter might have looked like had the miscarriage not crumbled the last walls of an already almost ruined relationship. The image of Y/N's face bearing the professional contempt gradually erases the thoughts about how it once used to look outside of the workplace each time it is seen: the amused smile that those lovely lips unconsciously curled into during so much as a mere conversation, the twinkle in the eyes at the mere sight of me out of the claws of creativity, able to spend time with the woman who meant the world like a proper boyfriend, the adorable scrunched up nose when laughing out loud. It makes the miserable father within wonder whether the child would have had the same qualities or if they would have taken after me: a pensive frown forming when reading, biting a plump bottom lip when lost in thought, unconsciously making gestures all the time during speaking even when it is not necessary.

We shall never know for the one opportunity of discovering this has been lost to selfishness, unable to be salvaged by however many endeavours are made to do so, all ending in the same fruitless result of nothing.

Outside a blizzard has begun to blow, sticking tiny crystalline unique snowflakes to the window while turning the reality paler than it already is, extinguishing the hope to find the beauty of spring soon and thus making clear one knows this season shall be harsher than its predecessors. As if it wants to teach humanity a lesson the cruel way, just as I have been taught one by ruining everything that could have provided a solid prosperous future.

Head full of useless worries about things that are no longer of concern, since there is no beloved to care for, and the excruciating pressure of alcohol leaving the system, a turn onto the other side is made with arms tightly holding on to the pillow that once belonged to Y/N. Even though the characteristic scent of perfume has faded, the mere knowledge of whom it belonged to seems to lessen the aching somewhat before it is worsened again to the same level, today maybe even going beyond that point, as eyes close to hopefully recapture the dream of a genderless child with a distinct mix of recognizable genes calling out to their father.

Calling out to me.

Only the bottle knows the differing answer to the inquiry as to how far the depths of the broken man's despair stretch.

And today it has a new story to tell.