The Warmth That Wasn't Meant for You

The wind here carries a sharpness that cuts deeper than the summer heat ever could. I pull the wool tighter, feeling it bite into my skin just enough to remind me of who I am in this world: soft on top, armored underneath.

The city skyline is distant and blurry behind the golden leaves—a jagged wound against the sky where our future used to be drawn. You told me once that autumn was a season for letting go, but you didn't tell me how much it would hurt to watch someone else's warmth replace my own while standing in this same patch of fallen gold.

I cross my arms and stand still. The wool sweater is heavy with its own purpose, designed to keep the chill out, yet I am freezing from a cold that started long before winter came. Maybe healing isn't about finding someone new; maybe it's just learning how to wear this weight without collapsing under the burden of wanting you back.

Editor: Summer Cicada