The leaves turned faster than we expected.
One week, the ginkgo trees were full and golden. The next, they rained like farewell letters on every path we used to walk.
You said autumn had always been your favorite season. "It's honest," you told me. "It doesn't pretend it'll stay forever. It just shows up in full color, then fades—gracefully."
You were trying to prepare me.
I knew it.
And I hated it.
You still came to school, still sat with me behind the art building or by the lake near the park. But I noticed the changes. Your steps slower. Your laughs softer. You grew quieter with each passing day, as if your body was holding something inside—trying not to let it show.
You still smiled though.
That same smile that broke my heart and held it together all at once.
One day, you handed me a notebook. Small, leather-bound, tied with a red ribbon.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Stories," you said. "Letters, too. For later."
"Later?"
You just looked at me. Then looked away.
I didn't open it. Not then. I couldn't.
Instead, I walked you home that evening. You leaned into me more than usual. I felt how light you were—like your body was already starting to slip away from gravity.
At your doorstep, I asked, "What happens if I read the letters now?"
You smiled gently. "You'll understand too soon."
So I waited.
The days shortened. The winds grew sharp. Your seat in class sat empty more often.
Until, one morning, Mrs. Lee—your mother—stood at the school gates, her eyes red, holding an envelope with my name on it.
"In-ha," she said, her voice trembling. "She wanted you to have this today."
I opened it under the same ginkgo tree we used to sit beneath.
*I'm not gone yet,* you wrote, *but I needed to say this now…*
The rest blurred through my tears.
Autumn doesn't wait.
Neither did time.
But you…
You left me your truth.
And a part of yourself I could carry when you no longer could.
—