At first, the summer sun was a lover’s touch—soft, golden, and weightless. It brushed against her skin like a whispered vow, warming the spaces the cold had once claimed. She welcomed it, let it settle into the quiet corners of her being, let it weave light into the places she had long kept hidden.

The days stretched in honeyed hues, in laughter softened by the haze of heat. The sun kissed her thoughts, her dreams, her lips. Creating machinations of late night drives with the windows down and weekend trips whispering stories under the stars until she swore she could taste gold on her tongue. She bathed in its glow, believing it gentle, believing it hers.

But love, like summer, is never solely tender.

The warmth grew heavy, pressing against her like an unspoken truth. The golden touch turned searing, relentless. The same sun that once cradled her now clung to her skin, demanding, devouring. Shadows shrank to nothing, offering no refuge, no escape.

By the time she understood, it was too late. The fire had already sunk into her bones. And as the sun burned high and cruel above her, she realized—what once gave reprieve from the endless winter within, had only ever been the beginning of an inferno. Leaving her scorched, white umbers dancing in the wind.