January came, and I’m not sure why they call it a new year. All my problems stayed the same. New year, same me.

February rolled in, dragging that damn rodent who decided if the misery would linger or if everything would finally melt away.

March brought a madness for more—a restless craving for warmth. This monotonous life is getting old.

April poured down reminders to be patient. To nurture yourself. Step outside. Let love grow.

May bloomed with fields of hope. Summer called to say she was on her way (though she hadn’t even left the house yet).

June arrived with a humbling breeze. Not every day can be sunny, you know.

July lit up the sky, bursting with life. Days were filled with rejuvenation. We fell asleep sunkissed and starry-eyed.

August crept in, quiet and unassuming. But the heat gave her away—it got 10% hotter the moment she walked in. She left just as quickly, begging the sun to follow her.

September strolled in with a warning: It’s time to get your act together. Just because it’s warm now doesn’t mean the freeze isn’t coming.

October couldn’t make up its mind. A little more fun, it said, oblivious to the fact that winter was knocking on the door.

November overslept by an hour, and somehow, nothing felt the same.

December waltzed in with flurries, eager to wrap things up. She whispered to us to cherish what we have—because we can’t take it with us when she’s gone.