as a child, summer was the most anticipated season of the year—a golden stretch of time where routines felt less like obligations and more like rituals. it meant returning to my grandparents home, where the scent of ripe mangoes hung heavy in the afternoon air, and the days unfolded in a sequence i knew by heart. from 10 am to noon, i played under the unforgiving sun, my skin tingling with heat, the world spinning in waves of mirage-like shimmer. by 4 pm, i would sit in my art class, the room bathed in an orange glow, a quiet breeze slipping through the open windows—gentle, deliberate, as if it too had learned the rhythm of summer. evenings belonged to the park, where time stretched long and languid from 5 to 7:30 pm, laughter echoing between the trees as if the season itself had found a way to preserve joy.
there is something about summer that makes every moment feel heightened, as if the world itself is burning memories into us. perhaps the secret lies in the way our bodies sweat more, pores open like tiny doors, allowing sensations—warmth, scent, sound—to seep in, embedding themselves deep within. summer does not just pass; it lingers. it imprints. and long after it has gone, it leaves behind fragments—of golden light, of salt on skin, of a childhood that still glows like embers in the dusk.
i still remember the summer of 2019, not just for its slow, sun-drenched days but for the book that became a part of it—The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. it took me two months to finish, even though i read it for two hours every day. and yet, it never seemed to end. the story unraveled at its own pace, like a lazy afternoon stretching toward dusk, refusing to be hurried. it felt like a fever dream, my favorite one.
i tried reading it again, you know—last december. this time, i finished it in four days. the words were the same, the world still brimming with magic, yet something had shifted. maybe i was different now, a faster reader, a sharper one. or maybe it was the weather—too crisp, too dry, not sticky enough for the story to cling to me the way it once had, melting into my skin like sweat in the summer heat.
is this why movies always glorify summer? the season of fleeting love stories, of strangers who become lifelong friends, of quiet transformations that feel life-changing—like a glow-up just in time for high school. maybe summer isn’t just a season but a feeling, one that makes everything more vivid, more urgent, more memorable. or maybe it’s just the heat, tricking us into believing that every moment is bigger than it really is.
either way, i always fall for it. happy summer <3
Your description of those days really hit home for me. I could almost smell the mangoes and hear the laughter in the park. The way you talked about how seasons influence our memories and perspectives is super insightful. It reminded me of the magic in everyday moments and how important it is to appreciate them.
this is making me so nostalgic cant wait for summer !!