we're hiding in the stairwell. midnight mass is going on, but we've never cared for tradition. hymns and sermons and candles and wine-- what's the point of lovely things if you don't believe them?

we huddle against one another eagerly, sniffing the damp scent of red brick and sugary snow in the mildew dark, cuddling to shield one another from the bite of december's cold. i stare at her black doc martins with their bright yellow trim, mismatched socks, bare porcelain knees, rainbow clips cradling her midnight hair.

"i feel like i'll never be warm again," she jokes, but i don't think she's talking about the weather. i embrace her palms and blow puffs of hot breath, heating up the icy skin of her hands. porcelain pale, smooth, cold. is she feeling me at all?

i've learned things about her, over the past few weeks we've been friends. the molten mist of ennui that shadows her sleepy eyes, her elegant gait, folded-up poems she keeps nestled in her pockets, charm bracelets and witchy rings, how she hums when she's daydreaming. i've realised how lonely she must be. when she thinks of love, she probably thinks of pain.

i lean over and kiss her cheek, scandalously close to her mouth. this is the moment i would expect her eyes to light up with rogue embers, lick her lips, perk her ears. none of that, though. she just smiles, a very sad smile, and leans into me to keep warm.

we are all going to die someday. in a way, we are already naked. shivering in the starry void. disappearing into dust.

"it's warm inside." i suggest. "with all the candles."

she shakes her head. "you'll do just fine."

we listen to the church choir as they sing melodies of angel latin. o, let the night with these hymns be haunted. snowflakes twirl, midnight stars wink, her hand becomes warmer and warmer in mine. touch, peculiar and delightful. it feels like the afterlife.