As the seasons change, so do feelings.
I love the autumn smell. I love the smell of coffee, warm limited edition coffee that everyone and their mothers seem to go buy. Even she buys it, but I can forgive that. She's adorable when her eyes light up at the menu, when she gives me those pleading eyes and that cute, unintentional lip pout. I always buy it for her before work, and send her on her way. And I fall more and more in love, but I can't hide that anymore. So, I sign the waver, put on the gown, and come back home a week later.
A year passes and she's able to fake it, she's still kind and sweet, but something sometimes feels off. The next autumn day, with that same beautiful scent, and no reaction. She misses those feelings, but she'd miss the pretty eyes and soft pout more.
I clutch the note in my hand as I look at the hospital files. A pile of petals stained crimson sit at my feet. The note slips from my hand and falls into it. I was blinded with my work, blinded by my goals and aspirations, I was blind to those soft looks, those extra touches on my coffee, those extra pastries and those soft flirts. Those disappeared a year ago and I never noticed until it was to late. It's always to late for me, but this time, it's too late for good.
One day, those pretty eyes stop showing up. The pout disappears, and her bank account feels heavier. She does her research and finds out that just like the steam off a drink, the girl too has drifted up towards the stars. She contacts a friend, who knew her well, and he delivers as single note, stained with petals and red. She reads slowly, with no reaction, but deep in her soul she is weeping.
She too stops showing up, and her bank account halts.
Another year, another autumn day. The smell is the same, the air is the same, but the two cafe sweethearts are no more. One's anniversary is today, as her friends gather around a small stone tablet, leaving flowers and coffee cups, letters and tears. The other, has a sheet as white as a ghost slipped over her face, and her eyes gently shut. A letter is left, full of regrets and wishes, and beautifully weaved stories, her explanations. She is buried next to the grave with flowers and coffee, unintentionally, and yet, fate finds its ways.
Every year, there's a special day that the world seems to know, that smells like special coffee and the smell of a childhood autumn day. The trees discard their leaves on the ground for the children to play with, and the wind ruffles their hair and pushes their balls just a bit forward in a teasing manner. The cafe bell rings often, and for those who knew, they order that special little order, that has a special discount in remembrance. Two groups visit a single spot, one filled with coffee and flowers, and the other filled with mechanical parts and dumb notes.
Those two groups know each other well now, but only one person leaves things at both graves. No one questions him, because both know why.
It's a special day when the autumn breeze meets the scent of coffee, and when two souls were just a little to late for each other.
Or, so most think. The trees, the wind, and the earth tell a different story, but only if you're listening.
