the season of almost
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the air has a stillness that feels deliberate. nothing moves unless it has to.
the days shrink without warning. the sun disappears mid-thought. everything smells faintly of the day before—wet concrete, burnt coffee, the echo of engines fading down side streets.
the room feels crowded with things that aren’t here anymore.
november doesn’t arrive so much as it lingers. it hums beneath everything. that quiet ache between what’s ended and what hasn’t begun. a soft mourning for things without names, for the people and versions of myself that vanished without ceremony.
something in me slows with the season. i find myself tracing outlines of what could have been, small details from lives i never lived. the past stretches thin, replaying in fragments that blur as soon as i reach for them.
the air feels heavy with unfinished sentences. i move through them carefully, trying not to wake anything that’s already asleep. small rituals fill the time. a candle burns down. a song starts and ends without me noticing. the tea goes cold before i remember it.
the days keep moving. i keep waiting for them to mean something again. but maybe that’s enough for now.
This article originally appeared in Volume 46, Issue 6, published November 18, 2025.
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