Three Consecutive Days of Snow

It's the sort of snow you'd see in a foreign film set in Vienna or Prague. Like clumps of cotton, blanketing the sky, floating, dancing on the wind. It's the sort of snow that children would stick out their tongues at trying to catch, only to find the fluffs would rather stick to their expectant faces.

Again and again, I return to the same questions: Where did it all go wrong? What could I have done differently? What could I have done at all? When did things suddenly get so bad that you decided to throw away something we had held dear for two years? How did I miss all the warning signs? What were the warning signs? I continue grasping at thin air, trying to pluck strands of logic out of a jumbled mind. Two months now, and not a single tear shed. I dread the day I arrive at home. We will have been apart for a full year, yet the actual avoidance, the actual not-seeing-eye-to-eye, the real gut-wrenching flashbacks of memories prompted by every familiar sound, movement, and setting, will only be just beginning. What then? Must I retreat to a mutually-exclusive circle of friends? Shall I confront and demand an explanation? Will I simply live in denial, pretending the last two years had been somebody else's life? You majored psychology; you tell me whether I'm mentally stable.