I've always adored December.
The soft snow, the warm light in the windows, the whisper of the streets preparing for a miracle.
But this year... everything feels a little different.

I still love the lights, I love the smell of pine needles, I love hot tea by the window—but somewhere deep inside, I feel a quiet emptiness.
Not pain. No.
Just the absence of that warmth that only a man can give.

You know that feeling when you feel small in his arms?
When he holds you by the shoulders and the world becomes simpler.
When his touch calms your thoughts, and you stop being strong automatically.

I miss that closeness.
That quiet caress, without unnecessary words.
That warm, genuine "I'm here" that a man gives not with his voice, but with his presence.

And I caught myself thinking:
Maybe that's how December works—it takes away warmth first, only to return it later through someone special?

If fate wants to give me such hands...
I'll take a step toward them myself.