The Summer Without You Exclusive -

September arrived not as a relief but as an admission. The nights cooled. The goldenrod bloomed along the fence line. I packed your books into cardboard boxes, not because I wanted to erase you, but because the shelf was sagging. I kept your copy of The Wind in the Willows —the one with the cracked spine and your margin note on page 47: “This is the part about friendship.”

The most disorienting discovery of that summer was that my body continued to function. My heart pumped. My lungs filled. My fingers typed emails and turned doorknobs. This felt like a betrayal. How could cells divide and nails grow in a world where you did not exist? the summer without you

The routines we shared became haunted houses. Making lemonade without your instruction to add “just a whisper more sugar” produced a drink that was technically correct but spiritually bankrupt. We do not realize how much of love is ritual until the ritual has no priest. September arrived not as a relief but as an admission

I named him Proust, because he made me remember things involuntarily. I packed your books into cardboard boxes, not

English 101: Creative Nonfiction Date: April 14, 2026