There is a specific morning every September when New York decides it's done pretending. It came this week.
I walked up to the 137th Street–City College station on the 1 train in a linen jacket that made sense on Monday and betrayed me on Wednesday. The first cold morning on the 1 train is a citywide humbling. Everyone on that platform dressed for yesterday's weather.
A man in shorts. A woman clutching an iced coffee like an act of denial. Me, arms crossed, pretending the wind off the Hudson was invigorating and not simply winning.
Back in Ahmedabad, we didn't really have this. We had hot, hotter, and the two weeks of monsoon that felt like the sky finally forgiving us. Seasons announced themselves with rain, not with the way strangers suddenly stand closer together on a platform for warmth they'd never admit to needing.
The first cold morning on the 1 train smells like it too. Radiator dust. Someone's cardamom chai in a travel mug two people down, which made me homesick and hungry in the same breath.
I got a seat by 96th Street, which felt like a small blessing from a small god. I watched the light change as we went underground and back up. My mother texted, asking if I was wearing something warm. I lied and said yes. Then I got off at 50th and bought a paper cup of coffee just to hold something hot.
The city doesn't ask if you're ready for the cold. It just arrives, and you learn to layer faster next time.
Tomorrow I'm bringing the good coat. Tell your September self I said sorry.
Love,