Ambrose never believed in love. He's convinced that true love is something that only exists in movies, and in his head..
But then he meets her. He believes that she's the love of his life. She's so perfect, it's almost unreal..
Letters to Autumn fol...
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IX. Autumn September 1988
Brown leaves dancing in the wind, the scent of cinnamon drifting on a gentle breeze. Rain falls softly, a steady companion to pumpkin spice lattes. Fall has finally arrived, and since the day I met you, it's become my favorite season. It was one of those rainy September afternoons when I was working at the café. The place was quiet, save for a couple savoring a pumpkin cupcake and a group of teenagers whispering and laughing. I heard the bell chime and, without turning around, I knew it was you. Your presence was like a familiar melody, an unmistakable feeling like the changing season and it filled the room with warmth. "Ironic, isn't it? Autumn walking into Autumn coffees on an Autumn day," you remarked, your voice carrying a playful note. I chuckled, the sound mingling with the soft patter of rain against the window. You smiled back, and I crafted a hazelnut latte for you-my first attempt. I adorned it with a heart made of milk foam. You took a sip and declared it the best coffee you'd ever had. You lingered until closing time, and together we walked through the misty streets. As we neared your home, you told me you loved the crisp sound of leaves crunching beneath our feet. A detail that I still remember with fondness. You asked me what my favorite thing about fall was, and I responded with apple pie and Halloween. You nodded, a knowing smile on your lips, and admitted you felt the same. When we arrived at your doorstep, you invited me inside. Together, we embarked on making apple pie, the kitchen soon enveloped in flour and laughter. You playfully threw flour at me, and it made you laugh so freely that it became one of my most cherished memories. We watched Beetlejuice and found ourselves wrapped in the music of Radiohead, our kisses blending with the melodies. You called me a great kisser. It was one of the best nights of my life. As the night drew to a close, you insisted I take some leftover pie for my parents. I kissed you gently on the forehead, and you whispered, "Happy Autumn, Ambrose."
"Happy Autumn, Autumn," I replied, feeling the warmth of your words and the lingering touch of your hand. As I walked away, the world felt newly painted with the colors of fall, each moment with you a brushstroke in the canvas of my life.
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