She had always imagined love as a constant. A steady flame that, once lit, would burn at the same temperature, with the same brightness, for the rest of her life. The movies had taught her this. The songs had promised it. Even the vows she had heard at every wedding she had ever attended spoke of a love that did not change, a love that was the same yesterday, today, and forever. She had believed it. And then she lived it.

The first season was spring. It arrived without warning, transforming the landscape of her life in a matter of weeks. Everything was new. Everything was vivid. The first time he touched her hand, the first time he said her name in that particular way, the first time she realized she was thinking about him when she should have been thinking about anything else. She bloomed in his attention. She felt beautiful, desirable, awake in a way she had not known was possible. The world seemed to have been waiting for this, for the two of them to find each other, and now that they had, everything made sense. Spring was intoxicating. It was also brief.