I was twenty-one, free, and new there. I had never experienced real love before. And nothing could have prepared me for what would eventually brew inside my chest.
He walked into my life in the summertime. July, to be exact. We were very similar yet so different. Everything came incredibly naturally to him. I guess I came naturally to him, too. I fell in love with him in two weeks. I’d never felt like that.
I fell in love with summer…and the fall, and with him, all at once. And I knew right then and there that I was never going to fall back down.
I miss the smell of it. I miss walking through Paris. I miss when all he could see was me. And when all I could see was him.
I miss those moments. Those brand new moments that felt like heaven. Those that never fade from your mind, because they were so damn perfect.
I guess I never thought it would end. I never thought he’d stop.
I love the fall. Everything is new. You get to start over. To be someone else. To be different. And I miss loving him through the seasons as they changed, in Paris, Tunis, Madrid or Barcelona. I miss loving him when the world was dark, but we were light. And no matter which ways our universe’s turned, our love always remained the same.
As I sit here now on my hotel balcony, It’s July, I keep telling everyone I’m excited for September. I need that fresh air. I need that breeze and the rusty leaves. I need to feel brand new, away from here.
But a little part of me is terrified that it’s going to make me miss him. All over again. And I can’t handle missing him again. I can’t handle that I’ll be there, right where he will be, and yet I won’t have him to run to.
It’s been oh so long. Two years. So many seasons. I have no idea when my heart is going to change as easily as the weather, neither when I am I going to feel anything else but missing him a little, sometimes.