Freeze Warnings
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” I met a boy in the fall. One year later, I lost him in the fall, too.
Fall is his favorite season. I’d never really enjoyed it; I much prefer its predecessor. I’ll take oversized sunglasses and summer vacation over Halloween costumes and pumpkin spice lattes any day. Fall means winter is looming. Autumn leaves look pretty for a week until they drop and everything dies and snow begins to fall with the sole purpose of impeding on my morning commute. I’d much rather trek to my perpetually delayed train without eating shit on frozen snirt (snow-dirt, a New York City classic) or passing by rats feasting on rotten, abandoned sidewalk jack-o’-lanterns. Being from the city, I’ve never had to rake leaves on a front lawn or shovel six inches of ice off a driveway, but I can imagine that sucks too. Fall means sunsets at 4:30 PM and tepid weather, at best. Fall means frat flu and NyQuil bottles and seasonal depression. Fall means I can count my days until the next family brawl over lukewarm Thanksgiving dinner. This is what fall means to me. But fall is his favorite season. For a brief moment in time, fall was synonymous with him.
He took me to see a horror movie back when we first met. He loved scary movies, and I loved what he loved. I think about that a lot. The year I loved scary movies and slutty tops and indie rock and lemon drop shots. The year I loved the fall. I sometimes wonder if I only loved those things so he would love me. Sure, I still dress to elicit glares from my mother and I begrudgingly listen to Vampire Weekend on occasion and, allegedly, there’s a handle of vodka in my underwear drawer and lemon slices in my minifridge. But no matter how hard I try, fall is something I don’t want to muster up on my own. Fall is something I just can’t romanticize. Fall is something I only love relative to him.
Fall (romanticized) is sitting in a pile of leaves, reading a book under a tree like Rory Gilmore at Yale. But I don’t read very often. I didn’t even read The Great Gatsby; I saw that quote on Pinterest. I didn’t get into Yale, either. But neither did he.
Fall (romanticized) is swaddling up in chunky scarves, clunky boots, and warm, cozy clothes. But I have no interest in wearing sweatshirts unless they were stolen from him. His scent still lingers on the one I keep hidden at the bottom of a dresser drawer.
Fall (romanticized) is cuffing season and coffee dates and couples’ costumes. He’s a pianist, and I thought we would be the perfect Schroeder and Lucy this Halloween. After all, nothing screams October like It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. But we didn’t make it to this Halloween. Instead, I’m alone in my phantasmic pumpkin patch, patiently waiting on someone who’s never going to show up. This year, I’m Linus.
I’m ironically blue for a season so filled to the brim with reds and yellows. A well-timed heartbreak wouldn’t coincide with nature’s last hoorah; the muted skies and barren trees of a dull, chilly winter would feel much more appropriate right now. Shit, I’d rather brave any season over the one that whistles his name on each violent gust of wind. I loved the cold air when I had him to keep me warm, before it became a biting reminder of what’s missing. I miss him… I miss warmth. I miss my favorite scarf, too. The last I saw of it was draped over his shoulders on an especially frigid day. I don’t have the heart to ask for it back.
This time last year, falling in love felt inevitable. We used to stroll along the uneven city sidewalks for hours, admiring whatever fall foliage we could catch a glimpse of in the East Village. I faintly remember one walk in particular, the evening of our horror movie date. I remember the way he rambled about Halloween plans and pumpkin propaganda over piping hot chocolate and the taps of cold, drizzly raindrops that fell on the umbrella he held above my head. For once in my life, I couldn’t care less about frizzy hair or soggy bell bottom jeans. Kissing in the rain was romantic enough to make me forget every reason to hate it.
This year, the only falling to be had is in temperature. I now wake up to freeze warnings instead of texts from him, and I watch the trees change color from my window alone. I think about him every time a particularly pretty leaf crunches under my shoe, and some days, a small smile comes over my face. Others, I crumble like that leaf and cry my way home. The half-life of a heartbreak is unpredictable like that.
That’s why I think that, in many ways, Fitzgerald was wrong. Life certainly began when I met a boy that fall, but it never started over again, and I’m not sure it ever will. I keep waiting for the change of seasons, for this new life to thaw out like the earth in the springtime. Deep down, though, I know this emotional equinox — my soul-stice, if you will — isn’t coming. My world is frozen over in perpetuity. Because it’s always going to be fall in my world. Because it’s always going to be him. The slinky sundresses I picked out for his eyes only lay untouched in a vacuum-sealed Ziploc bag on the highest shelf in my closet, and I can still feel his fingers instinctively tapping out the Halloween theme on my arm. I remember the warmth of the borrowed sweatshirt I wore when he said he loved me for the very first time, and I’m knitting myself a new favorite scarf.
Freidrich Nietzsche said, “Autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.” I think he was onto something.
Thalia Mott is an undergraduate student at American University in Washington, DC. Originally from NYC, this vibrant environment inspired a lifetime of creativity including a four-year stint at a performing arts school. Thalia enjoys rewatching ’90s rom-coms with friends, writing love letters, and attempting ballet variations in her dorm room.
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