165 Days

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She stares at the fresh snow on the ground outside. With that feeling of not caring what others will think, she slips on three pairs of socks and some rain boots. Her arms slide into the sleeves of her winter coat, and a scarf is wrapped around her long neck. She grins when she steps onto the snow-clad ground, her boots on the layer of flakes making a crunching noise. The cold wet mystery precipitation hits her nose, burning at first, then melting away in a heartbeat. Feeling like a child, she sticks her tongue out, catching the water. She spins in circles, dancing to the song stuck inside her head, her favorite band's leaked song. She relishes the moment on her own. Her arms flail in the air, her whole body wiggling side to side in beat, and she sings softly to herself. Neighbors are staring but she is oblivious, blinded by joy.

"One-hundred sixty-five days," the girl calls out, and the neighbors think she is crazy; she knows it.

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