𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜

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Chapter 1: Spoiled

“What’s your favourite season?”

It’s such a simple yet nuanced question, one of the first things people find out about you. It’s not even a question, more so a demand, as if your answer would be the foundation on which a budding friendship would be built.

It feels like a pretty unstable foundation, if I’m being entirely honest, and don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise. No, don’t try to convince me that years of sharing unhinged secrets, lunchtime sessions of handball, and sleepovers should be based on something as trivial as that. Whether you prefer mornings of fresh snow sitting upon your roof or the warmth of the sun’s rays at the community pool should not determine the outcome of a relationship. Personally, neither season is to my liking. Winter is too vacant, harsh. In theory, the idea of it sounds nice. But when it eventually graces the skies, no amount of hot cocoa or bobsledding can compensate for the unsettling solidarity you face.

 And Summer’s always a massive disappointment, as well. Everyone gaslights themselves into thinking that it will be The Summer, just to find themselves unsatisfied and bitter halfway through and give up. Unfortunately, the ideal Summertime lifestyle most people envision doesn’t account for budget, planning, chlorine-saturated hair or opening hours. Spring’s bearable, but in all honesty, it feels more like a filler season. I suppose I feel a degree of sympathy for it, because it doesn’t have anything of great prominence to offer as Winter or Summer does. Well, except Easter, of course, but for those who are non-religious, it holds little significance in comparison to Christmas or 4th of July.

I was never drawn to flashy gimmicks, though. I’m the type of person to savour every sip of a chai latte, or bite of a croissant, so much so that I often end up not finishing it. I make sure every hint of cinnamon has glazed over my tongue, that the warmth doesn’t fade within mere seconds. It’s the emphasis I put on the item I’m consuming. When I pick it up, it’s as if it holds the mass of Earth alone. I have often been told that this trait makes me unattractive to others, which may be sufficient reasoning as to why I do not have many friends.

In reality, I’m only someone who sees life for what it is, and that is disturbingly temporary. While everyone around me chooses to view this world through rose-coloured lenses, what they don’t understand is the regret they will feel when their time is up. When they’re in their last minutes, their minds will fill with an obscene amount of regret, of what could have been, should have been. Not me, though.

I am fully aware of how temporary everything is, this passing moment, how much untapped depth it will forever possess. Fall is the season that summarises these beliefs for me. It’s a transition season, severely overlooked. The concept of it being treated no more than a filler season infuriates me, because it has more to offer than Pumpkin Spice Lattes and Halloween. Have you ever gently placed a maple leaf into the curve of your palm and found yourself carefully admiring its various pigments? Have you ever run into a pile of dry, crunchy leaves, trampling over them, and seeking refuge in their warmth? Have you ever climbed a Sweetgum tree, collecting multi-coloured bruises along the way, to sit on one of its branches, and gaze out at the chilly Autumn evening?

If not, you’re spoiled by a materialistic society, and I feel a degree of great sympathy for you. Amongst what the man-made world has to offer, you have managed to find yourself lost, convincing yourself to seek comfort within its cold, plastic arms. But you’ve never felt warmth, not true warmth. There truly are no words to describe it, but I find it easiest to compare it to the smell of ginger, or a dodgy attempt at making a scarf out of love. But perhaps what would make most sense to explain it as would be the hearth of a fireplace, a sense of home, because home is where the heart is, and mine is still hung up on fall.

Some may call me melodramatic, over-analysing, even.

But until you’ve smelt fresh-baked loaves and felt the crisp air graze your shoulders, you’ll never truly understand the meaning of fall.

And she didn’t, either.

Chapter 2:

It was nearing the end of August when we first met, on the first day of school. Almost everyone gave off the impression that they were unhappy to be there, despite the fact that they had spent roughly the last three months entertaining themselves with classic summertime activities. After weeks of sunburns and hardcore air conditioning, surely, they ought to have been bored? Everyone was chatting animatedly about every minute detail of their vacation, whether it be the seemingly endless day trips to Sea Turtle beach, or the low-budget activities at the local summer camp everyone’s parents sent them to, they all seemed fairly content, something I would never be.

I had spent my Summer curled up under the scrappy material of my dollar-store sheets, which I regretted buying, knees tucked tightly to my chest as I read through the material for the upcoming school year. My mother had intruded on my solidarity on multiple occasions, with a look of genuine concern plastered over her dainty features each and every time.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want to join those kids outside? I bought icy poles for you to share!” She pulled out a jumbo-sized bag of various flavours of the most popular summertime treat. This would have swayed most people, but not me.

“Mum,” I snapped at her, “I’m 14 years old, pineapple and cola don’t make for a very convincing argument.”

Mum sighed, grasping her forehead in her rather small-looking hands.

“Astrid, you’ve spent the entire Summer hunched up in your room, reading books you practically know off by heart! Can’t you just go outside, even for a bit?”

“No!” I replied. “I refuse to lose myself in something so trivial. Time is invaluable. These hours are invaluable. I’m preparing for the future now so that when the time comes, I can enter medical school and leave this sorry town!”

Mum had been growing visibly frustrated with me. “Astrid, medical school is years away, and you’re a kid now! You’ll have to wait an entire year before Summer comes around again, and when it does, you’ll stay hunched up in your room until you’re no longer a kid, when you finally have responsibilities of your own!”

I could begin to see tears forming in her soft eyes. “Please, could you make the most of your summers for me?”

“But that’s the thing! I don’t experience any sort of affection towards Summer, and you know that!” I huffed. “Besides, time has value; you of all people should know that.”

I regretted it as soon as the words had promptly exited my mouth. She knows I was referring to her accident in June, 10 years ago. The accident had left her in a coma for years. The memories had resurfaced. I tried not to think about them much, but now I knew there was no avoiding them. When you hurt someone you love, it is unrealistic not to expect karma to punish you accordingly.

I could hear the silent sobs exit from my mother’s throat, painful and traumatised. Of all people, my mother didn’t deserve what had happened to her, and certainly not what I had said. She dropped the ice poles and left quietly before the opportunity presented itself for me to apologise. Characteristic of my selfish behaviour, I managed to silently rejoice in the fact that I would not be bothered again for quite some time…

That memory was the most painful for me to replay. Not the crash, nor the aftermath, but what I had said to my mother, whom I loved with all my heart. Ever since that day, we had slowly drifted away, little by little. I had been considering this in class, my head suddenly feeling heavy and difficult to pick up. I managed to turn my head a little bit, peering out from the curtains of my auburn hair that I so dearly wished I had cut before starting school. My curls were so noticeable that I could feel the stares of those around me. It had been as if I was the centre of attention, but then again, I wasn’t, really. Out of the corner of my eye, I managed to catch a glimpse of the only other student sitting in their seat, appearing slightly philosophical. From underneath the various layers of her glossy wolf cut, she turned her face slightly to shoot me a small smile.

A smile.

I  made an attempt to smile back, though I was aware that it probably looked far more forced than I had intended.

Though she was on the other side of the classroom, I could almost feel something, something pulsing through me. Warmth, radiating and coursing through my veins. It was almost as if this mystery girl was on the same wavelength as me. I had contemplated this deeply until the teacher entered the room abruptly. He had appeared a man of little prominence, though his gait suggested otherwise. Before I had time to gather my thoughts and place them back in the corner where all my little disturbing ideas belonged, a voice boomed from above.

“Astrid, Stella, you two will be sitting next to each other"

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