With the season of falling leaves came the initial heat wave. With the heat wave came the rolling blackouts, the hours in the dark, the incandescent burning of candles, and the unavoidable realization of being left with my thoughts. My thoughts of him, of last fall, of the last time I let myself fall, of how it's almost been a year now. I feel like we've grown so much, yet not at all. I feel like we're both so different yet still stuck the same. Still stuck in the same place that we were last Halloween, when I upended everything he ever knew us to be to admit the one truth I'd ever really known.

Here's the irony of Halloween: it's the one day a year when we are allowed to pretend to be something we aren't, yet I used it last year as a means to put an end to a charade I was playing by myself.

 

How do a pair of friends move past a sudden love confession followed by ten months of no communication? I guess we don't.

Before I know it, talk of a gathering for Halloween is brought up in family and friend group chats, and plans are solidified before my eyes. I'm excited, and I'm terrified, and I'm not sure if I'm going to smile or throw up. Irony is seeing him every year on Halloween, the one day a year we are expected to pretend to be something we aren't, but I've learned every year it gets harder to pretend I haven't been falling this whole time.

 

October creeps up with a feeling of wariness—a bit like dread. Maybe it's the ghost stories, maybe it's the thunder storm warnings, or maybe it's the planning of a Halloween party. What to wear, what food to buy, what decorations to put up, and most importantly: what to say to him when he inevitably walks through my front door?

 

How did, "Hey, you totally frosted me," sound?

 

Frosted, a term I heard for the first time while watching a corny Filipino drama. It was a slang term mixing together "friend-zone" and "ghosted," and I didn't think it would leave such an impact on me, but now I'm dying to use the term. It sounded a bit cringey if I was being honest, but if there was a way to shorten my feelings, why not?

 

But before I could concoct the perfect script, predict any possible outcome, October slips away from me and I'm tumbling headfirst into a situation I've pondered so hard that I never came to any conclusions. I guess overthinking gets the best of me, it festers into a pit in my stomach.

Suddenly, the anxiety and the terror melt away with a doorbell, and I see him again. We sit together in a room full of our family and our friends, exchanging life updates. I can't help but think of how I'd rather find out these details the moment they happen, but instead, I was only given the honor of knowing months later. The pit sprouts into a sapling in my gut then, a feeling of sadness washing over me as I realize: these are the moments I'm always dying to know, but I always find out last. I always find out late. I never get to live life with him, only hear about it after the fact.

 

I sit there while my sister brings up the topic of love, asking him if he's found it yet. The pit begins to grow leaves, and I can't help but feel guilty that I'm relieved with his omission that he hasn't. But then, there's the realization that means he also hasn't found it in me. And I wish the pit in my stomach would stop sprouting like a tree. But it grows and it grows, and suddenly, I want to throw it up and release myself from these leaves of jealousy. These leaves of longing.

 

It's then, and only then, that I allow myself to come to the realization that this is all we'd ever be. He'd be the love of my life, and I'd be the last thought of his.

 

 And I guess there doesn't need to be a full blown conversation when the truth is knocking you down with the wind, and suddenly, I realize why I associate this man with Autumn and the concept of falling.

 

Just like autumn leaves, I fell. Without direction, aimlessly guided by the wind—but no amount of falling means there's someone there to catch you. I fell to hit the ground and I fell, only to be swept up in the breeze that brought me back to him. Time after time, year after year, the seasons change, but we don't. Every Halloween we come back weathered by life, matured by experiences, but the feelings always stay the same. But the way autumn leaves, so does he. Back to his life. Back to winter and spring and summer. Leaving me with the same longing, counting on the hope of it all, waiting for the season of Halloween and being able to pretend to be something we're not.