Autumn is waking up to days as dark as nights, constant in the white light pouring out onto your face beneath the thickest blankets you’re allowed to use. Alexa chung is leaning into Mr. Music Director, bundling up his boyfriends hoodie in her arms, begging for stories titled in lower case and a kudos count of 379. Head girl and Vice Head girl drop a new single from the sidelines of the bus yard, featuring a boyfriend and tiny waists, awaiting an encore with ‘welcome your assistant directors of the UNODA, Harvard MUN India 2016.” Or that’s how you think it went because you weren’t actually there with the heavyweights. You were sat with your formals in its box and brain in its shell, resting flat on open books that read nothing and an ache that screamed, “you never really tried because you didn’t want to accept you aren’t worth it.”
Too conspicuous, it needs more drowning in seas and fire in your wings. Your audience is a tide of blank faces safe to show, while the voices in the next room mean you can’t be taller, clothed in slim fit black jeans and a leather jacket hanging off high shoulders. Autumn is a realm of new found hallyu, taking you to intended lower case on AO3 and reminders of your inadequacy, but you cant trust it, of course. Its okay, because you manage to live through it till October comes, autumn turning its back on you without a second glance, leaving with the mists of the retreating monsoon.
Autumn leaves behind nights of soft Hindustani in your headphones, a disappointing lull under orange light as you watched the last rains fall from your corner of the veranda and unfinished writing scrawled on loose sheets, stuffed into the table drawer and locked for when Spring comes.