In my past, I've scoffed at love. I was contemptuous. I wrung tears from my lovers' eyes and mocked them afterward. I stood in the snow, pointed, and laughed. I was cruel.

Then — crash. Two doors I had taken for granted locked forever. I lost my places to come in from the cold. My fingertips ached and I was alone.

But eventually you came. My heart thawed some under your warm breath. I fantasized about building us a little two-person igloo and calling it home. I thought we'd grow old there.

But one day we decided to explore your old territory. You held me up so I could peek in the windows. I saw the laughter of children, the embraces of adults. Your roots glowed even in the dim light, feeling connecting people like thick cables.

I recoiled and saw your sign above the door, "Welcome home." The truth filled me like I'd inhaled icy water. You wouldn't want my igloo. As for me, I'd become a feral alley cat — too used to its ways to be allowed inside.

I looked up at your window and saw someone wave. Perhaps they even beckoned. And when I turned away, my heart was heavy. I told you I didn't want or know how to build a house. Or live in one. And I walked away.

I sometimes peek in those windows, and others. But I know that no matter how I'd like to think otherwise, the inside life's not for me. I shiver and wait to grow thicker fur.