Christmas used to be a magical time of year.

The snow fell from the sky, leaving in its wake a soft white blanket to cover the ground and the general feeling of magic in the air, of everything being right in the world.

The snow seemed magical to me last year, an entity fully capable of taking even the worst day and turning it around. When I was having a bad day it seemed all I would have to do is stand outside when it was snowing, hold my arms out and look up at the sky, and it would bring this burst of inexplicable excitement.

Maybe it was never the snow. The snow had never had such an effect on me before you, so maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe it was you who made me inexplicably happy, you who made everything in the world feel magical.

I remember last year fondly. I remember when the snow finally fell and it was so cold. I remember you throwing snowballs at me, trying unsuccessfully to dodge mine. Snowball fights on Saturdays and telling you with a cheeky grin that I used to play softball.

I remember walking through your neighborhood, freezing cold because I didn’t bring a coat. You asked me if I was cold, and I said no even though I was, just because I enjoyed walking around and being with you.

I remember when you would come up and visit me at work when you had the night off, and I remember the flutter in my heart when I would see the black sleeve of your coat in the back, knowing you were there to see me. My heart leapt with joy. Remember the time you tried to surprise me, and I practically tackled you with a hug? You held me close and I breathed in your scent, wishing you would never have to let me go. And the time I was closing and couldn’t get the door locked because the lock was freezing up, so you had to do it for me, and then we “ghetto walked” around to back where our friends were waiting. (And then you told everyone we were in there so long because it “wasn’t your fault I kept checking you out.”)

I remember when we were working together one morning and you didn’t want to sweep the parking lot, so I went out and did it for you and you felt bad so you came out and gave me your coat to wear. I loved your coat. Not because it was any special coat, or even a very pretty coat. I loved it because it was yours, because it had your special scent. And most of all because I loved you.

I remember trying to figure out what to get you for Christmas, not wanting to go overboard and come on too strong, but wanting you to have exactly what you wanted. Do you know I really wanted to buy you the Wii? I knew you wanted one, but I was afraid that would be too much, so I didn’t. I remember trying to figure out what you would want, wanting to find that elusive perfect gift, and I could recall one night at work when you were looking at our blue serving trays and you told me you really wanted a green tray, but you didn’t even know where to find one. I felt so stupid walking up to the guy behind the counter at Mr. Hero and asking him if I could buy one of the trays. But I knew it would make you smile, if for no other reason just to imagine me actually locating the elusive green tray and imagining how I got it.

I remember Christmas Eve, coming up to work to see you just so I could bring you some Sour Patch Kids—your favorite. Just because I wanted to see you.

I remember know in the way we barely touched when you hugged me that something was wrong.

This is where the happy memories stop, and where a smarter person would have decided to walk away instead of holding on.

Maybe I would be happier without all the memories I have of us. You always say you have the memory of a goldfish; maybe I would be happier now if I had the memory of a goldfish. Maybe that’s the best thing about you. But I don’t. I remember everything in painfully clear detail, and I suppose that’s why I have a harder time letting go.

If loving someone mattered like I always thought it did, you would be mine, always and forever. I always thought if you loved someone enough, nothing else would matter, that you would be with them no matter what.

You taught me that it isn’t true. You taught me that you can just love someone too much. You also taught me that no matter how much I may love someone, I can’t make them love me back.

Honestly, I think I would have been happier awhile longer without these lessons you’ve taught me.

But you have. You’ve taught me more than I ever wanted to know.

I used to think love was a wonderful thing. I really don’t believe that anymore. I loved you more than you may ever realize, because you never returned my love, and that hurt. If only you would have told me then as you stole my heart with your smiles, your hugs, and your kisses that yours already belonged to someone else. I don’t know why you loved her more, and I don’t know why you always insisted that you cared about me. How can you have feelings for both of us? Why are your feelings for her stronger?

I remember when I cried to you and asked what was wrong with me, why you didn’t want to be with me anymore. I’ll never forget that broken look on your face as you looked into my eyes, the look that contradicted the words you were speaking as you told me, “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re perfect. It’s just that I never stopped caring about her.”

I guess it doesn’t matter why you couldn’t love me. I don’t know why I thought I would feel better if you gave me the real reason. Hearing it nearly killed me.

As I sit here on the park bench where you first kissed me, the snow is falling all around me, but it is not magical. The weather is cold, and I wish that I had your coat to make me warm.

Over by the swing set there’s a little girl packing a snowball, laughing merrily as she winds up and throws it, smacking the little boy she’s playing with in the back of the head.

He makes a face, rubbing the back of his head and calls back to her, “Lucky shot.”

“Nuh uh,” she says, giving him a cheeky grin. “I play baseball.”

I smile, holding back the tears, and look away from the children, trying not to think back on our magical time together.

As one single tear slides down my face, my thoughts drift back to that night when you told me I was perfect, but you loved someone else. I remembered how you reached up and tenderly brushed the tear away, looking to me like you wanted to cry.

As I sit here alone, wiping the tear from my own cheek, I wish that you were here to wipe away my tears now.

But you never will be.

I guess I should know that by now.