He gave me the coat before Christmas. 

Blue wool, heavy in my hands, the lining still stiff from the store. He said it was an early gift, that he wanted me to be warm this winter, and that I deserved something nice. I believed him because it was easier than not believing him. I walked home from my shift that night with the coat zipped up to my chin, snow brushing against my shoulders, thinking maybe this year would be different. 

The city was already dressed for December. Lights blinked in windows, wreaths leaned crooked on doors, and an inflatable Santa sagged against a lamppost. I imagined a warm Christmas morning, cinnamon and sugar, kitchens with heat, and mornings that began slowly instead of with anger. 

When I unlocked the door, he was waiting. 

The argument started small, the way they always did. A question, a tone, a word that landed wrong. The hands on my throat, pressure sudden and precise. The room tilted. My vision folded inward. I remember thinking, absurdly, that I was still wearing the new coat. It was nice that he had chosen it for me. 

When I stopped clawing at his hands on my throat, winter came. 

I must’ve passed out; I dreamt of snow falling softly in a yard I had never seen before. Something small ran past me, laughing, fuzzy boots kicking up white powder. We built a snowman with crooked arms and pebble smiles. Inside, the air smelled like cinnamon and sugar. I stood at a stove, melting butter into a batter, pouring waffles thick and golden, listening to Saturday morning cartoons, looking at a pair of purple scrubs on the chair, my favorite color. There was laughter there. There was safety. There was a life that had nothing to do with blood or bruises or fear.

I woke up on the cold hardwood floor. 

He was crying. Saying he was sorry. Saying he loved me. Saying it would never happen again. He helped me up, wrapped me in the coat, and kissed my forehead with shaking lips. I nodded, but this time was different; the dream would not leave me. The snow. The waffles. The scrubs. The small thing running around. The life that waited somewhere else. 

I packed quietly while he slept. 

My whole life fit into one backpack. Before I left, I grabbed my mismatched gloves – one purple, one pink – stitched by my mother years ago when she still believed she could protect me from everything. There was no one to call, no family to go back to. 

Outside, the cold was immediate and unforgiving. Snow crusted over the sidewalks, streetlights bleeding yellow lights into drifts. I walked until my lungs burned, coat heavy on my shoulder, breath stuttering in white clouds. The city felt emptied, hushed by December. Perfect for disappearing. I rode the TTC until it did the route twice. Heaters hummed weakly. People slept with their heads against windows, mouths open, hands curled around nothing. I dreamt of a Walking Talking Elmo toy I had seen in a toy store window, red fur bright against the snow, arms wide as if waiting for someone to run into them on Christmas morning. I woke when the bus jerked to a stop, heart racing, hands numb. 

Campus became my country. 

The medical library smelled faintly of disinfectant and dust. I studied nursing beneath fluorescent lights, anatomy diagrams blurring into veins I could still feel pressed beneath someone else’s fingers. I memorized bones and blood nerves, learned the names for everything that had hurt me. 

At night, I moved between buildings: computer labs for warmth, student lounges for silence. A Christmas tree stood in the main lobby, lights blinking tiredly, a toy drive box half-full beneath it. A plush Elmo peeked out from the piles, red fur flattened, waiting for small hands. I sat beside it once, staring too long, imagining wrapping paper and laughter and kitchens that smelled like cinnamon. 

Security caught me sleeping in the medical library after closing.  Too long in one place, they said gently. Not angry. Just tired.  They handed me a cup of free soup from the student center and told me which buildings stayed unlocked overnight. Winter teaches people where mercy lives. 

Sometimes I slept at the diner near campus, curled in a booth after my shift, watching families through fogged windows. Parents poured syrup. Children pressed noses to the glass. Christmas songs played softly from a radio behind the counter. I washed dishes until my hands cracked, counting tips, counting hours, counting how many nights I could survive like this. 

By the time Christmas arrived, I was already gone from my old life. 

Snow fell thick and steady. I walked past lit windows and imagined myself inside them. I ate soup alone in the student center, watched tree lights blink, and traced the outline of my gloves where threads were unraveling. The new coat kept me warm. I hated that. I loved that. Both things were true. 

January froze the city solid. 

February followed, gray and relentless. 

I went to the university support office one morning, fingers shaking, voice barely there. I said the words slowly: Boyfriend. Choking. Nowhere to go. They nodded, wrote emails, called numbers, found housing, and found help. Winter loosened its grip by one small degree. 

On Valentine’s Day, the campus was busy. Pink flyers wilted on walls. Slush pooled in corners. I walked across the quad with my backpack light on my shoulder, coat zipped tight, gloves damp but intact. I had slept in buses and libraries and diners and labs. I had survived.

That night in the narrow dorm bed that was finally mine, I did not dream of snow or waffles or small pink boots running in the snow. I dreamt only of darkness that did not hurt me, of silence that did not demand anything. 

Outside, winter was thinning. 

Inside, I began, quietly, to belong to myself again.