There is a specific morning every year when New York decides it is done with summer, and it never asks permission.
This year it was Tuesday. I got on the 1 train at 116th Street and felt it immediately — that clean, sharp air that sneaks into the car every time the doors open at 96th. Sleeves down. Shoulders up. A man across from me was still in shorts, in denial, and I respected him for it.
The first cold morning on the 1 train is my real New Year. Forget January. January is frozen slush and regret. September is the actual reset — new pencils, new energy, the whole city walking a little faster.
I had bought an iced coffee out of habit at the bodega on Broadway, and by the time I reached Times Square I was holding it like a sad little trophy from a war I had already lost. Next stop, hot chai. My body knew before my brain did.
Back home in Ahmedabad we don't really have this. We have monsoon breaking, and heat, and then more heat. The idea that a season could turn in a single subway ride still feels like a small magic trick to me even after all these years.
The first cold morning on the 1 train also means the fashion girls come alive. By 34th Street I counted three trench coats, one perfect oversized blazer, and a woman in knee boots who made me want to throw my entire closet out the window and start again.
I got off at 28th, walked into the office, and everyone had the same look on their face. That soft, hopeful look. The one that says maybe this fall we finally become the people we keep pretending we'll be.
I'm not holding my breath. But I did order boots on my lunch break.
Summer, you were fine. Autumn, I'm yours — sleeves down, chai up.
Love,