Written Through These Amber Eyes

“Some Summers Don’t Stay”

Late summer clung to the city like a whispered promise: warm sidewalks, the taste of sun in the air, long shadows cast by tired trees. It was the kind of warmth that made you believe nothing could leave you. 

Scottie sat on the rusted park bench beneath a tall tree by the corner deli, elbows on knees, eyes soft with thought. Across from him, Zeke paced the curb like he always did when his mind was too full and his heart too quiet. 

They had been meeting here since June. First, as strangers who reach for the same bottle of iced coffee. Then, as acquaintances who laughed too long at small jokes. Now, as something unnamed, too delicate to define, like smoke in the sunlight. 

Zeke wore his joy loosely, like a hoodie he could shrug off whenever the sky turned gray. And Scottie, well, Scottie watched him the way one watches the night before a storm. Not wanting to speak too loudly, not wanting to make it leave. 

“I think I’m heading south again,” Zeke said, hands in his pockets, words caught in the space between casual and confessional. “Before the cold sets in.” 

Scottie didn’t answer right away. He looked at the ground, where the first crisp leaf of the season had settled between his feet, a copper flare against concrete. 

“You always do,” he finally said. Not angry. Just true 

Zeke tilted his head back and stared at the sky like it had answers. “Yeah, I guess I do.” 

There was no argument. No plea. Just the distant hum of a bus engine and the slow creak of a flag-rusted pole. 

Scottie wanted to ask why this city never helped Zeke past September. He wanted to ask if it was fear or freedom that made him run. But instead, he memorized the way the light hit Zeke’s cheekbones. The way his shadow curved along the sidewalk. The way he never quite stood still.

Because he knew.

When fall comes around, Zeke’s never around.