I woke up on Thursday and my apartment was cold for the first time since May. Not freezing. Just that specific September cold that means summer has quietly packed its bags and left without saying goodbye.
I took the 1 train uptown to a fitting near 79th and the whole car was different. People in denim jackets that were too optimistic. A man reading an actual paperback. That collective New York silence that feels almost holy before 9am.
The first cold morning of the year always undoes me a little. In Ahmedabad we don't really have this. We have hot, hotter, and monsoon. This slow surrender of one season into another is something I only learned here.
I got off at 79th early on purpose. Walked toward the river through the Upper West Side where the doormen were hosing down sidewalks and the coffee carts had a line. Bought a chai from a cart guy who calls everyone boss. He called me boss too. I love him.
The first cold morning means I can finally wear the mustard cardigan my Nani knitted me, the one that smells faintly of the trunk it lived in all summer. I've been waiting for weather cold enough to justify it.
There is a particular loneliness to fall that I've made peace with. It's the loneliness of getting older, of another year turning over, of missing a home that doesn't exist in the same way anymore. But there's also this: hot chai in a cold hand, a train full of strangers, a city that dresses up for the season like it has somewhere to be.
I stood by the Hudson for a minute before the fitting. Watched the light do that pale September thing. Texted my mom that it was cold here now. She replied with a voice note about how it's still 34 degrees in Gujarat and I should be grateful.
I am, Mummy. I really am.
Summer left. I didn't cry. That's growth.
Love,