i dreamed of a fever, one that would cure me of this cold, winter-set heart

The mid-autumn days always make me feel weird. The wind is cold, but not too cold. The sun is warm, but not warm enough. The air is chilly with a hint of frost, and the leaves rustle like they want to tell me one last secret before falling to the ground, where they will inevitably dry up and crunch to dust under a child’s feet. Sometimes I wish these days would last forever, and other times I wish they would give away to winter faster.

At least, during winter, I can be depressed in peace.

Mid-autumn days make me feel weird, but the good kind of weird. They make me feel like I matter in this world, like I’m more than just a lonely speck of dust in the great big world, like I’m more than just one single person on this tiny blue planet, like the things I do will last and be praised a million years into the future.

Like I won’t be forgotten, like someone will always remember me.

I wonder if that’s how he felt, when he left that mid-autumn day so many years ago. I remember so clearly, the wind blowing through his hair, the sun staining it amber, his shadow falling onto my face, the maple leaves fiery-red against the impossibly blue sky. I remember him, silhouetted against the setting sun, the sky turning pale above the river, telling me he loved me. I remember the ripples on the surface of the water, dazzlingly bright, like diamonds in the sky, begging him to stay.

And I remember him saying no.

with heat to melt these frozen tears, and burned with reasons as to carry on

The philosophers of old told me that time could heal all wounds, even those I never thought could be healed, but they lied. It’s impossible to forget that autumn day underneath the blazing orange sky, northern wind blustering through the gap between our bodies, watching the joggers run past in their jackets and sweatpants and beanies. In the same way, I can’t let go of everything that happened before, the summer nights spent tangled in bedsheets sticky from our own sweat, the lazy Sunday mornings with golden sunshine streaming in through the blinds, the spicy ramen challenges where we both ended up crying in the kitchen fighting over the milk carton.

I can’t forget the trips to the botanical garden, watching the roses bloom, watching him shove his nose right into the pollen-swollen pistils and sneezing so hard the soft pink petals fell to the cobblestone ground. I still remember the way he looked sprawled out on those moss-covered wooden swing benches, leaf-dappled sunlight falling onto his face as he slowly but surely fell asleep, and I can’t forget the ache that wrenched my heart out of its chest, the feeling tha