Not a red heart. Not a warm, beating, blood pumping heart. A light blue one, because that is the exact color your heart turns somewhere around mid January when the windchill hits negative 40 and you still drive to work like it's a normal Tuesday.
This is love, Minnesota style: emotionally reserved, structurally frozen, and expressed almost entirely through passive aggressive politeness and a 25 minute goodbye in the driveway. You love it here. You would never say that out loud. Instead you say "ope, cold one today" and move on with your life while ice fishing on a lake you also swam in five months ago, eating something unidentifiable out of a casserole dish, getting bitten by the unofficial state bird. Mosquitoes. Obviously.
Soft, broken in feeling fabric that holds up through cabin weekends, brutal commutes, and deep fried everything on a stick. Built to layer, built to last, and comfortable enough that you will absolutely wear it four days in a row and tell nobody.
