The Quiet of Fall

 

When the air conditioner comes out of the window, the whole apartment shifts. The hum that filled every corner of summer disappears, and in its place—silence. It’s almost startling. I open the windows and let the air move through. Some days it’s still warm, but other days there’s a cool edge that brushes my skin, reminding me that change is coming.

That coolness feels like a signal, a promise of the crisp air I wait for every year. Fall always feels like my true new year. Not the one on the calendar, but the one my body remembers—because my birthday lives here, in this season. When the leaves begin to let go, so do I. Something in me starts over.

I notice the little things more now: the way the curtains sway with the breeze, the faint smell of woodsmoke, the earlier darkening of the sky. Time slows down, or maybe it simply feels softer. I breathe differently, deeper, as though my lungs recognize the air as something I’ve been waiting for.

In this quiet, I feel reset. The world exhales, and I do too. Fall doesn’t just arrive outside my window—it arrives inside me.

Georgia