The spring shines, the summer warms, the autumn dried, and the winter cools.
Seasons turn, and so did her life.
She was perfect. They called her perfect.
From the moment she could walk, they called her a butterfly.
Spring had been her childhood, bright and effortless, where every teacher praised her and every neighbor adored her.
Summer was her youth, when her beauty bloomed and admiration clung to her like honey to a blossom. She was elegant, graceful, untouchable—the kind of girl who was not merely seen, but worshipped.
And she played the part well.
Her expression was soft, her laughter melodic, and her smile bright—but her eyes missed nothing. She knew how to turn praise into advantage, how to twist words into favord. How to make others believe that perfection was her natural state and the world thought of her as a fragile yet sweet damsel, a creature of silken wings. But she survived not through fragility but through control.
Autumn had arrived as if the seasons were moving too quick.
It was the season of love for her—it brought the day her childhood friend slipped that beautiful ring onto her finger. He was her promised one, the boy who had chased her through fields and pulled her hand through the fields of roses. To her, he was the only person who had ever seen her as more than a mask. The only one other than her family who had whispered "I know the real you."
For a time, she believed him.
Then winter crept in silently.
His gaze began to change. Where warmth once lingered, suspicion took root.
He watched her too closely, noticed the games she thought invisible, the words she sang like musical notes. She felt it in the air between them—cold, brittle, like frost gathering on a once-blooming branch.
And though her wings still shone beneath the lamplight, she knew with a certainty that chilled her blood: even butterflies could not escape the winter.
And she felt it. The way frost creeps across a windowpane, invisible at first until the world outside is blurred and unreachable.
One night, at a family dinner meant to celebrate their engagement, the distance between them grew unbearable. The room had been filled with wine and laughter, the glow of candles, the warmth of approval from relatives who adored their "perfect butterfly" and her steady fiancé. She smiled, played her role, laughed when she was expected to.
But his eyes never softened.
After the last guests departed, she slipped into the garden for air. Moonlight draped the flowers in silver, and for once she allowed her mask to drop, shoulders trembling with exhaustion.
He found her there.
His eyes bore into a cold sight—as if tired, it defined his perspective of him to her. "You always know how to get what you want."
He left. He just left. He didn't even turn around.
She forced a smile even when his figure slowly disappeared from her sight. She thought everything was perfect—nothing would separate them, yet it felt strange. Cold even.
Her heart skipped, just once. What made him change? He was supposed to be there, by her side, never bending nor going. Yet—
He did not answer.
The silence stretched between them, heavier than stone, sharper than knives. It was not anger in his gaze, nor hatred—it was worse. It was the cold weight of doubt.
For the first time in her life, she felt the fragility of her wings. They had carried her through spring and summer, through praise and adoration. But wings, no matter how beautiful, could be torn.
And as the winter chill seeped into her bones, she realized with quiet horror: even butterflies could not escape the cold.