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John wasn't much afraid of darkness as he was of coldness. And not the coldness of an ice cube, or snow— those ones stung or bit, which felt like a form of companionship, equivalent to a summer night. No, John was afraid of the coldness of an empty room, or his mother's eyes when his father would come home. That kind of coldness didn't bite, it settled, it filled you up, and John didn't want to be filled up like that.
When John met Brianne for the first time, what drew him to her first was the way that her hair glittered like the sun. She worked behind the counter, late evenings at the cafe he liked to write at. Under the yellowy hue of the pot lights, Brianne became everything that he dreamed of.
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