Longing for Autumn

Every year, without fail, as spring stretches into summer and the world basks in heat and brightness, I begin to ache—not for the sun, but for the slow, golden fading of it. While others chase the warmth, revel in long days and cloudless skies, I find myself dreaming of the opposite. I long for that first breath of crisp, clean air that carries with it the promise of change. I wait for the dusk that falls a little earlier each evening, for shadows that grow longer and more inviting, for the soft hush that only autumn seems to bring.

There is something in me—something quiet and ancient—that awakens with the coming of fall. It’s not just the weather, though the cool winds and rustling leaves stir my soul in a way no summer breeze ever could. It’s the season’s atmosphere, the way the world seems to exhale and soften. The colors deepen, the sky bruises to twilight, and everything seems to move more deliberately, more thoughtfully. It’s a time of reflection, of ritual, of returning home—to ourselves and to each other.

I swap out my usual playlists for something slower, moodier, songs that echo the melancholy beauty of the season. I take long walks beneath canopies of amber and crimson, letting the forest whisper its secrets as I pass. Every tree becomes a familiar face, every animal a silent companion, and sometimes—if I'm lucky—I cross paths with a stranger who offers the same knowing, playful smile. As if we’re in on something no one else can quite see. As if we both remember that autumn carries its own kind of magic, subtle and potent.

At night, my room becomes a haven. The darkness outside wraps around me like a velvet cloak, and inside, candlelight flickers against the walls like spirits dancing to the rhythm of the wind. There’s a serenity in those moments, a clarity that only comes when the world grows quiet. In autumn, I shine—not in spite of the darkness, but because of it.

Autumn was my first love—the kind that settles deep into your bones and never leaves. As a child, I felt it in the thrill of Halloween costumes and harvest fairs, in the scent of spiced cider and the sound of leaves crunching beneath hurried feet. And even now, that love has not waned. It remains steadfast, year after year, always returning, always waiting.