I wish I were heather

Literary by Ares

The third of December always sneaks up on me.

Not like a holiday, not like a date I mark on a calendar.

More like a bruise I forget about until something presses on it again.

Maybe it’s the cold.

Maybe it’s the way sweaters start appearing on everyone’s shoulders.

Or maybe it’s that one song people like to replay this time of year.

The one that pretends it’s just about winter

when really it’s about wanting someone who never wanted you back.

The sweater. 

The glance. 

The laugh.

The warmth I wanted. 

The closeness I imagined. 

The notice I hoped for.

I guess that’s why the day feels so loud to me.

Because I’ve lived that story.

The quiet kind of love.

The kind that makes you feel stupid for noticing the way someone holds out a hoodie,

hoping, even briefly, that maybe this time the warmth is meant for me.

It never was.

I still remember one December 3,

standing beside him while he laughed,

his sweater slung over his arm like an invitation.

My heart jumped before my mind could stop it.

But then he turned and draped it over someone else’s shoulders,

and I pretended the cold didn’t bite harder.

People joke about the song,

call it the “gay hymn of unrequited love,”

and I laugh along.

But deep down I know why it hits the way it does.

Because wanting a sweater from the right person is never about the sweater.

It’s about wishing you mattered enough to be seen.

To be chosen.

That’s what the third of December is for me:

a reminder of all the times I wasn’t.

But it’s also become something else.

A quiet promise I make to myself every year:

that longing doesn’t make me weak.

That there’s nothing wrong with hoping for someone

who’ll one day notice the way I fold into the cold

and step closer, not away.

Maybe next time someone offers me their sweater,

it won’t be accidental.

Maybe the warmth won’t be borrowed.

Maybe it’ll finally be mine.

For now, the third of December stays with me.

A soft echo of a song.

A memory that stings just enough to make me honest.

And a reminder that some stories begin with heartbreak

but don’t have to end there.