Summer was supposed to be warm—the kind of warm that's supposed to spark your passion, setting your heart afire until it engulfs you whole in flames. He assumed it was the truth until he proved it to be a popular belief. And the truth was quite the contrary of it.
To him, summer was nothing but a term. There was no summer. It did not exist. In fact, there were no seasons to begin with. There were no summers, no winters, no autumns nor springs. No solstices or equinoxes. His April 1st was like any other day; just the same, if not worse. The heat did not reach him even at high noon. He felt as if the sun feared him, its light remaining distant, never wanting him to feel its glory; like it wanted to hide from him.
And it did not bother him, not an ounce.
He looked around him. He looked at the dead stray dog beaten down to a pulp on the sidewalk. He looked at the fabulous, high-rise buildings where the luscious, vibrant trees once stood. He looked at the naked city, with all its inhabitants making love in the dark but killing each other off in broad daylight.
Instantly, it occurred to him why he never understood warmth. How could he when all the people around him had frozen hearts?
