In my head, it’s still October and you haven’t left yet

In my head, Time has frozen in October. The air still smells like you—warm, cheerful and optimistic. The trees outside haven’t shed their leaves yet, and neither have I. I still sit on the left side of the bench where I used to wait for you coming back.

The wind hasn’t changed its tune, and the sky hasn’t dimmed either. You haven’t left yet. Your laugh still lingers in the corners of our room, and the mug you used for tea still waits on the second shelf. I keep forgetting that time has moved on.

I have played our last conversations on loop before you left the house in my memory, over and over again.

I watch people move on like seasons do, shedding skin, finding new moons. But I’m still wearing October on my sleeves. I keep returning to that one evening to search everything about you.

I imagine you’ll walk back in, smile like always, and say, “Sorry, I got lost,” and I’ll say “I am here for you,”

But to be frank, I don’t even know what I did to deserve the silence you left behind. I write unsent letters, thinking maybe the universe will deliver them to the version of you that still here. I carry your photo as a lucky charm in my back pocket, but where is my LUCK?! People say move forward is important. But how do you close a chapter when the person you were waiting for never came?

The calendar insists it’s July. But in my head, it’s still October. And you haven’t left yet.

I keep going back to the night you told me about your dreams. You said you wanted to live by the sea someday and maybe open a little bookstore where time moved slower. I remember I said I’d come visit, and you laughed, and said, “You’d have to stay. Visiting wouldn’t be enough.”

Oh, honey, in my head, it’s still October — and we’re still talking, and you haven’t left yet.