I feel cold.
Not literally, I come from a very warm country, actually, but I feel cold all the time. Perhaps this is why I prefer staying at university instead of coming back. The cold English climate is the perfect culprit to take the blame for the chills all over my skin, the goosebumps and shivers ever-present through my life.
My hands feel cold, constantly, for they have not touched another person in my memory. Every time one of my friends offers, I tell them I don’t like hugs. I don’t like physical contact. It makes me uncomfortable.
We laugh about it, I crack a joke, and the day goes on exactly like the rest.
I don’t tell them the real reason, though. I don’t tell them that hugs don’t make me uncomfortable, they scare me. They scare me because as soon as I feel that warmth again, the tears which have long since frozen in my eyes will turn to liquid and run down my face.
And how do I explain that?
How do I explain that I constantly feel like crying, and when I don’t, then I don’t feel anything at all except the cold?
How do I explain that despite the warm wind blowing my hair away, I feel cold?
How do I explain that while their coffees are warm as we all sit around and talk, mine is cold?
How do I explain that? The fact that even though I’m constantly surrounded by people laughing, talking, sharing memories and warmth, I’m submerged under the cold arctic water, unable to participate, completely alone?
There is a strange familiarity to the cold though. Like a wall of ice, keeping me separated from the rest, but also protecting me. Protecting me from feeling the warmth, for how will I be able to go back to the cold once I’ve felt the fire’s heat caressing my shoulders?
I feel cold, and even though the warmth is surrounding me, I don’t dare let the wall of ice melt.
