When the air blows crisp and the trees dance orange and red and gold in the sweatshirt-requiring, hands-in-the-pockets winds, it gets weird.

Weird and quiet and a little bit sad, so when the darkness crosses his eyes, she feels the pang of guilt, deep in her bones, and she's sure she'll carry it for the rest of her life. When she looks at him, she can hear herself hissing, like a cat, venom in her voice, and the slam of the door echoes in her brain. The room tips like an airplane, the airplane that ran from her truth; her stomach knots, and autumn in Edinburg is fresh on her mind.

(But when the inky sky lingers longer and the emptiness trails the chill of the atmosphere, he'll hand her the gallon of apple cider- always apple cider- and the weirdness and silence and sorrow will be over. She'll pour the mugs, heat them in the beaten microwave, and he'll slip his arm around her shoulders as they watch Zoolander for the hundredth time, and it will be warm.

Warm and relaxed and a little bit happy, so when the smile lights up his face, she'll feel the breath of relief, deep in her soul, and she'll be content to hold onto it forever. When she will look at him, she'll hear the fervent pounding on the wood, the creak of the hinges will echo in her brain. The room will smell like forgiveness, the forgiveness that poured from her tears; her throat will tighten, and his "never do that to me again" bear hug will be fresh on her mind.)

When the pumpkins become decoration and the leaves crunch under every step, she remembers how she lost him, and he'll remind her she came back.