Where The Autumn Wind Blows

[Ari]

Autumn feels heavier than summer ever did. The air is sharper, the nights longer, and everything between us is already cracking.

Josh and I walk the same halls at school, but it’s not the same as it used to be. He still won’t look at me when Gavin’s name comes up, like my feelings for him are a crime I never confessed. 

Mara barely texts anymore unless it’s clipped, practical things. 

And Gavin—well, Gavin’s three hours away, counting down the days until graduation, already acting like he’s got one foot out the door.

Gemma texted me last night: You ever feel like you’re suffocating, even when the window’s open?

I didn’t know how to answer.

I keep thinking about summer, the salt wind and the laughter and the promises we made, but autumn isn’t summer. 

–And the truth is, maybe none of us are the same anymore.

The thing about autumn is that it looks prettier than it feels. 

Everyone talks about the leaves—red, orange, gold, the whole cliché—but no one talks about the gray sky behind them, or the way the air smells like endings.

Josh doesn’t say much on the drive to school. He grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart, and I know better than to bring up Gavin.

 Not that I don’t think about him—I do, all the time—but Josh has this look when his name comes up, like I’m betraying him twice: once for feeling something I can’t turn off, and once for not knowing how to fix it.

By the time we pull into the lot, kids are already huddled under the overhang, phones glowing against their faces. 

Someone’s blasting music too loud from a beat-up Honda, and for a second, I almost wish I could be one of them—anonymous, not tangled in this secret world we’ve built.

It’s bonfires on the beach, promises whispered into the wind, the feeling that no matter what, someone knows you better than anyone else. Or at least, it used to feel like that.

Now Gemma’s stuck four hours away at that private school where she says the air smells like bleach and money. Mara’s three hours away with Gavin, and she hasn’t answered my last three texts. 

Eben floats somewhere in the middle, but even he feels out of reach. And Gavin—he’s the center of it all, whether Josh admits it or not.

I catch myself scanning the crowd, like maybe he’ll just appear here by some miracle. Stupid. He’s not coming back. He’s got senior year, football, whatever else fills the hours before graduation. And me? I’m just here, wishing I knew how to keep us from falling apart.

Josh slams the car door harder than he needs to, and I follow him inside, hugging my books tight. Autumn isn’t even a week old, and already it feels like everything’s slipping through my hands.

Deep down, I wonder if Gavin’s right—if the only way to survive the fall is to start letting go. 

Classes blur together. Same walls, same teachers, same whispers about who’s dating who. 

I take notes I don’t care about, highlight sentences I won’t remember. 

By lunch, I’m staring at the clock as if I wish hard enough, time will stop rewinding me into the same old loop.

Josh sits with me, but it’s not like before. He scrolls on his phone between bites of his sandwich, barely talking. 

I try once, asking him about his summer reading essay, but he just shrugs, as if he can’t be bothered. The silence between us is heavier than words.

By the last bell, my head is pounding. I walk out into the cooling air, pull my hoodie tighter, and tell myself it’s fine. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

It’s Gavin.

I love you. Have a good first day at school.

Three hours away, and somehow he still knows the exact thing that will break me wide open.

 My throat tightens, and before I can think, I’m smiling like an idiot, the kind of smile you hope no one sees because it gives too much away.

I don’t reply right away. I just hold the screen, reading his words over and over, pretending they’re enough to close the distance. 

Pretending the we are still whole, but as I slide into Josh’s car and see his jaw clench out of the corner of my eye, I know pretending won’t last forever.

Because autumn has only just started. And already, everything feels like it’s about to fall.

Josh doesn’t say anything as I climb in. He just shifts the keys in his hand, pretending to start the engine, but I can feel the weight of his stare. Not looking at me, not looking anywhere—just the space where I used to belong in his world.

I tuck my phone into my hoodie pocket, trying to shove the warmth of Gavin’s message under my ribs so Josh won’t see it. 

But I can’t erase the quickening in my chest, the way my fingers itch to press reply, to let him know I feel it too.

The drive home is quiet, except for the hum of tires against asphalt and the occasional click of the turn signal. 

I glance over at Josh, wondering if he can sense the invisible tether between me and his best friend—the one I can’t ignore, the one I shouldn’t feel this strongly for because it’s his best friend, his year, his life.

“Do you… think it’s gonna be like this all year?” I ask softly.

He exhales sharply, as if the question stings him. “I don’t know,” he mutters, finally glancing at me, eyes shadowed, guarded. “Maybe… things are just different now.”

Different. That word lands like a stone in my stomach. Because different isn’t better. Different isn’t summer.

 Different isn’t staying up until midnight on the beach, whispering secrets into the wind, pretending we could outrun everything.

We pull into my driveway, the leaves crunching under the tires. 

I sit there a moment, tracing the streaks of sunlight fading across the dashboard, before I step out. Josh follows, shutting the door a little too forcefully, and I flinch.

I want to reach for him, to bridge the silence that’s grown between us like ivy choking the walls, but I don’t. 

Because every time I try, it feels like I’m betraying him, in a way: feeling for someone so close to him, someone he’s about to lose to graduation, someone he trusts more than anyone.

The air smells like rain coming, sharp and cold. Autumn doesn’t forgive the spaces we’ve left open. It just moves in and fills them anyway.

I watch Josh walk to his room, his shoulders rigid, and I feel it: the first real crack between us.

Gavin’s message still glows on my phone, a tiny lighthouse in the gray. I pull it out again, thumb hovering over the screen. Three words, three simple words, and yet they feel heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.

The thing about autumn, I realize, is that even when the leaves fall, the roots stay buried in the ground. Maybe some things—some people—never really leave, no matter how far apart we are.

And for the first time today, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, holding on isn’t as impossible as it feels.

Because the wind is picking up, rattling the trees outside my window, and I swear I can almost hear it whispering: not yet… not yet.

I drop my backpack and hug my hoodie tighter, wishing I could shrink into it, wishing I could disappear until autumn passed.

I flop onto my bed and pull out my phone again. Gavin’s message is still there. I love you. Have a good first day at school.

I stare at it until the words blur, until the ache of missing him starts to feel like a living thing inside my chest. I imagine him walking through the campus, counting down the hours until graduation, already chasing the next thing—maybe without realizing how much of me he carries with him anyway.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

“Hey,” Josh says, leaning against the frame. His hair’s messy from the wind, hoodie hanging loose, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks smaller somehow, like he’s carrying the weight of everything and I can’t fix it.

“Hey,” I whisper back.

He steps inside, closes the door softly. For a moment, we just look at each other. He wants to say something, I can tell. He wants to ask if I’m okay, if I’m thinking about Gavin again, if I’m feeling guilty about the way I feel. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not fully. Not with his best friend being the one who’s far away, and me being the one who… shouldn’t.

“I heard from him today,” I finally say, my voice trembling a little.

Josh’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t reply.

I sit up straighter. “He… he said he loves me. And… have a good first day.” I try to keep my voice casual, like it’s not tearing me apart. “Three hours away. And he still knows exactly how to—”

“Don’t,” Josh interrupts softly, sharper than I expect. His hand presses against the doorframe, and I can see the conflict in his eyes. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t make me feel like I’m… losing him too.”

I freeze. Because that’s exactly it. It’s not just my heart that’s tangled in this. It’s Josh’s, too. And part of me—the selfish, guilty part—wants him to see me smile at the words, to see how much it means, even if it makes him ache.

We sit like that for a long moment, neither of us moving, both of us caught in the same storm we can’t name. Outside, the wind rattles the trees, shaking loose the first of the autumn leaves.

Finally, Josh exhales and steps back. “Forget that for now, Ari,” he says, voice softer now. “It’s too early in the season for this.”

I nod, holding my phone tight against my chest. As he leaves, closing the door behind him, saying nothing and everything all at once.

I let the wind carry the weight of everything—the missing summers, the distance, the cracks forming between us, the unspoken promises.

Autumn has begun, and everything feels like it’s falling. But maybe… just maybe… Some roots, some seasons, are strong enough to survive it.

I push myself up from the bed and drag my hoodie over my head. Dinner’s in an hour, and Mom’s already moving around the kitchen, the clink of plates and the hum of the oven filling the house. 

I start gathering the dishes that need to go to the table, wiping down the counters as I go, trying to let the motion take my mind off everything else.

Josh is upstairs somewhere , probably avoiding the kitchen until he absolutely has to come down. I can hear his sneakers scuffing against the floorboards, the faint groan of his door closing. 

I brush past the thought of him, brushing past the ache that settles every time I think about Gavin’s message still glowing in my pocket.

I fill the salad bowl and carry it to the counter, arranging forks and napkins while Mom checks on the oven. She hums softly, a tune I know, but there’s a note of hesitation in her voice. 

I catch her glance toward me as I move around the kitchen.

“You’re… quieter than usual,” she says gently, as if testing the waters. “Since summer… there’s something different about you.”

I pause mid-motion, hands stilling on the counter. 

“Different how?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but the question hangs in the air, heavier than I expected.

Mom steps closer, drying her hands on a towel. “The way you move. The way you hold yourself. And Josh… I see it in him too. Both of you have changed.”

I swallow, letting the words roll over me. She’s right, of course. Everything is different. 

The summer that felt endless is gone, replaced by this uneasy autumn, by Josh’s quiet tension and Gavin so far away.

“I’m fine,” I say finally, though the words feel hollow even as they leave my mouth.

Mom studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Alright, but… don’t hide from me, Ari. I know when something’s wrong.”

I nod, turning back to the counter. Plates clatter as I set them on the table, silverware arranged just so. 

The air smells like garlic and something baking in the oven, warm but bittersweet.

Josh finally appears at the bottom of the stairs, hoodie slung over his shoulders, hands tucked in his pockets. 

He gives me a quick nod and starts arranging his plate, careful not to make eye contact. Mom’s gaze flicks between us, sharp, trying to read the invisible thread that’s stretched taut between siblings, between best friends, between secrets we’re all holding.

I set the last dish down and step back, letting the quiet settle around us. The house hums softly, domestic and familiar, but the weight of everyth

ing—the messages, the distance, the unspoken feelings—presses in any way.

Autumn is here, and with it, the subtle cracks in everything we used to call whole.