My Summer Affair With You

I fall for you the same way every year, quietly at first, almost by accident.

It begins when the air changes its posture. Not so much its temperature exactly, but its intentions. Evenings linger longer. Shadows soften. I find myself starting to take the long way home for no reason I can defend. I tell myself I like the light, the way it loosens its grip before dusk. That’s a lie, but I don’t know it yet.

There’s a presence that arrives without announcement. You don’t demand my attention. You don’t rush me. You simply exist, and suddenly I’m aware of my breathing again. I notice how memories can travel faster than thought. How desire doesn’t always announce itself as hunger, but sometimes as recognition.

You’re sweet but not cloying. The kind of sweetness that feels earned, sun-warmed, slightly creamy, with a softness that suggests patience. You don’t overwhelm in the way louder things do. Instead, you wait for me to lean in.

I tell myself this is harmless. These things always are, aren’t they? They come and go, and we pretend we’re not counting the days.

There’s something intimate about the way we meet. Never head-on. Always just behind the shoulder or caught in the space between one step and the next. I’ll be thinking about errands or deadlines, and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. Somewhere warm. Somewhere suspended between reality and memories of us.

I don’t talk about you with anyone. How would I explain that I’ve started timing my evenings around you? That I linger outdoors longer than necessary, just in case? That I slow my pace, hoping you might catch up to me again?

What would I even call it?

It feels old somehow. Ancient even. Like something that existed long before I did and will continue long after I’ve moved on, unchanged and unconcerned with our brief infatuation, and the way you refuse to need me back.

And yet, when you’re there, it feels personal.

There are nights when you are stronger, fuller, almost intoxicating. I’ve learned those are the nights when the air is still, when warmth settles instead of wisping away. I breathe deeper, as if trying to pull this moment into myself to store it for later.

But I know you don’t work that way.

Our romance is fleeting by design. I know this. I’ve always known this. Even in the height of it, when everything feels lush and indulgent, there’s an undercurrent of impermanence. A sense that this is borrowed time. That I shouldn’t ask to many questions or make promises.

So, I don’t.

I let our love be what it is: a quiet indulgence, a sensory confession, a romance with no future and no consequences except the ache that comes later, when the air shifts again and the evenings retract.

When you disappear, you do so without ceremony. Without goodbyes. And suddenly one day I’m walking faster again. That my breath no longer catches. The world smells neutral, unremarkable, empty in ways I didn’t realise it could.

I pretend I don’t miss us.

But every year, without fail, I find myself waiting for you again. For the moment when the air tilts just right. When your sweetness returns, uninvited and irresistible. When I fall back into the same pattern and call it a coincidence.

Only at the very end do I admit the truth to myself more than anyone else.

This isn’t a love affair with a person.
It’s not even with a moment.

But with the brief, intoxicating season when frangipani trees bloom, when their waxy white and yellow petals release that unmistakable, velvety fragrance into warm evenings, turning ordinary walks into quiet confessions.

And just like any great love that was never meant to last, it leaves me changed… and waiting for next year.

 

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed my story, give it a like or even send me a message or comment telling me about your floral affair.