Written Through These Amber Eyes

“Some Summers Don’t Stay”

Fall moved in like someone who didn’t knock first. One morning, Scottie woke to the sound of wind pressing against the window, not violently, but insistently, as if it needed to be let in.

Zeke was already gone. 

There hadn’t been a final night, no drawn-out goodbye. Only a pause in conversation. A shift in the air and silence. 

Scottie moved through the city like someone walking through a dream that had already ended. The streets were the same. The deli still sold the same dry muffins. The barista still messed up his name on purpose. Zeke’s absence made everything different. 

He wore long sleeves now. Not for the cold. To keep him from looking at the bare skin that remembered being touched. The parts of him that Zeke had laughed against, leaned into, brushed with casual grace like it meant nothing, and everything.

The leaves began to change in the park where they used to sit. Burnt orange, honeyed yellow. Every color that could scream goodbye. 

He tried not to go there anymore. But on a Thursday afternoon, his feet betrayed him. He sat on the bench beneath the tall tree. The one Zeke had once leaned against, back in July, eyes squinting at the sun, saying something dumb about how trees looked like fire when they were dying. 

Scottie had laughed then, unaware of how right Zeke was. 

He pulled a book from his bag but didn’t open it. The pages felt heavier than usual. Across the path, a couple walked hand in hand. Not holding tight, just brushing fingers; the kind of hold you only manage when you trust the other person won’t let go.

Scottie looked down at his empty hands.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself whisper the question he had been holding in his cheek like a stone: 

“Why does he only love me in the heat?”

The wind didn’t answer. It never does.