a Thousand years

“I thought if I waited, you’d come back.”

The mountain looked endless the day we arrived.

White peaks disappeared into the clouds, cliffs hid beneath fresh layers of snow, and the wind cut through every layer of clothing as if fabric meant nothing to it. Looking up from the base felt impossible, like standing before something ancient and indifferent, something far greater than yourself. The summit was nowhere in sight. Only an endless stretch of white swallowing the sky.

The world looks different up here.

The air is so thin that every breath feels borrowed. During the day, sunlight scatters across the snow like shattered glass. At night, the stars hang low enough to make me believe heaven is only a few steps away. It's beautiful in a way that almost feels cruel. The kind of beauty that makes people forget how easy it is to die here.

The wind never stops. It moves through the mountain in long mournful cries, weaving between ridges and cliffs like it's searching for something it lost a long time ago. Sometimes, when the storms roll in, the entire world disappears. No horizon. No trail. No sky. Just endless white and the sound of the mountain reminding you how small you really are.

I've spent so long here that I know its moods better than my own.

I know which clouds mean snow.

I know which winds carry storms.

I know how the silence changes before night falls.

And every morning, before the sun fully rises above the peaks, I step into the cold and look toward the trail disappearing into the clouds.

Looking for you.

You used to laugh at how poorly I handled the cold.

"You're shivering again."

"Because it's freezing."

You'd roll your eyes before opening your arms.

"Poor thing. Come here."

I'd step closer without arguing, letting your warmth chase away the cold that always seemed determined to find me.

"And you're insane for wanting to climb this mountain."

You'd laugh.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe I just wanted an excuse to keep you close."

Back then, the mountain felt smaller. Maybe because I wasn’t carrying it alone.

Somewhere between the climb and the storm, I lost sight of you. At first, I wasn't afraid. You were always a few steps ahead of me anyway, always chasing the next ridge, the next impossible thing waiting beyond the horizon. I remember watching your figure disappear into the snowfall and thinking nothing of it. You'll be back, I told myself. You always come back.

An hour passed. Then another. The wind grew louder, carrying fresh snow across the trail until your footprints disappeared completely. Still, I wasn't worried. The mountain was vast, but somehow my faith in you felt bigger.

The first night was the hardest.

Not because of the cold, but because it was the first time I realized how quiet the world could be without you in it.

I sat outside the tent wrapped in layers of clothing, watching darkness swallow the mountains one peak at a time. The stars slowly emerged above me, scattered across the sky like tiny holes punched through the fabric of the universe. They were beautiful. You would've loved them.

"I wish you could see this."

The words left my mouth before I realized there was nobody there to hear them.

The next morning, I expected to see you walking toward me through the snow. By afternoon, I convinced myself you were simply delayed. By evening, I started inventing reasons for your absence. Maybe the weather had forced you to stop. Maybe you had taken another route. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow became my favorite lie.

I fed it to myself every morning and swallowed it every night.

As the days passed, the mountain began taking things from me. Not all at once. It was far more patient than that. It took warmth from my fingertips. Sleep from my nights. Certainty from my thoughts. Little pieces of me disappeared into the cold so gradually that I barely noticed until they were gone.

Yet somehow, every time I thought about leaving, I found myself looking up instead of down.

The path home still existed. I knew it did. Somewhere below the clouds were warm rooms, crowded streets, and people who would tell me that waiting this long was foolish. Maybe they would be right.

But leaving meant accepting that you might never come back.

Leaving meant admitting that the last thing you ever gave me was goodbye, even if neither of us knew it at the time.

And somehow, that felt colder than anything this mountain could do to me.

Sometimes the wind catches me off guard. It rushes past my ears carrying sounds that almost resemble your voice. On lonely nights, I let myself believe it.

"You're late," I whisper into the darkness.

The wind brushes against my cheek.

For a moment, I can almost hear you laugh.

For a moment, I can almost pretend none of this happened.

Then the silence returns.

The truth is, I don't think I'm afraid of dying on this mountain. I'm afraid of surviving it. Because surviving means turning around. It means walking back down. It means leaving without you.

So I stay.

I stay because every doubt I ever carried disappears whenever I remember what it felt like to stand beside you. I stay because your memory is warmer than any fire I've ever built. I stay because somewhere deep inside me, beneath the storms and the snow and the years of waiting, there is still a part of me that believes the next silhouette emerging from the blizzard will be yours.

Maybe that's foolish.

Maybe that's love.

Maybe there's no difference.

All I know is that the mountain is still here, the wind is still searching, and every morning I wake up to the same endless stretch of white and find myself looking toward the clouds once more.

Perhaps one day the mountain will finally take what's left of me.

Perhaps one day I'll find the courage to walk down without you.

Or perhaps I'll remain here until the snow buries my name and time forgets I was ever waiting.

A thousand storms,

A thousand silences,

A thousand years.

What difference would it make?

I'd still be looking for you.

I'd still be waiting for you.

Only to realize I’ve died a thousand times while waiting for you.