It is almost summer. Again.

It had the same warmth as last year’s. The same breeze that swept and flew my skirt as I lay on the
balcony of a white story building where our old office sat. The same afternoon where I had to watch him
strolling below, under the shades of a carved tree. I cursed that tree. It didn’t shade any of my toes
instead. Yet, at that same afternoon, I cursed something else the most.

Last year, the afternoon was the longest time of the day for me. I have grown impatient of sunsets. It
extended days that should have passed. It wasted time from people along busy highways; they would
pause and glorify its corona. It made seconds longer for solitary to die. And I was mad at it. I was mad at
how it spoiled itself on the sky.

Days after graduation happened. I had handfuls of adieus. I had hoped for raindrops to visit my window.
Not a single cloud passed by.

One afternoon came when I had to thank it. If not of the incident, I wouldn’t have to have to thank the
long afternoons that it made. Those afternoons, I had to hold his hand for the first time. Those
afternoon, I had to lay on his chest. Those afternoon, I had to stop writing proses. Those afternoon, I had
to be his.

I prayed for sunsets to be longer. I prayed for summer to endure. I wondered, if people would curse it, I
would bless it.

He made summer my favourite season.

South winds blew. Clouds were present. Teardrops fell. Finally. People prayed for this. The sky answers
the prayers of others. Our afternoons became home alones’. Afternoons became strange calling.
Afternoons were inches that grew into miles.

Summer went and go.

Yet, it is almost summer. Again. It had the same warmth as last year’s. As if we ever had four seasons. I
should have called it drought.