Adrian Hartmann

‚Autumn Light‘ The wind was cool, but not unpleasant. Leaves danced through the air in warm colors, as if the forest itself was breathing. He stood there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his thick brown sweater. His gaze was fixed on something in the distance, somewhere between the branches and the light breaking through the trees. Maybe he wasn’t really seeing anything. Maybe he was seeing too much. It was the first time in years that you had come across each other again. Not face to face, not in conversation, but in the same town, at the same time, on the same path that used to lead to your little escape from the world. You recognized him instantly. Not by his face—it had grown sharper, more serious, marked by too many winters—but by the way he stood. Like he might run at any second—or stay. The past had left marks. On both of you. You’d been young, clever in the wrong ways, full of sentences like “I know what I want” and “I don’t need you.” And then there had been that one day when everything had been too much. Words like splinters. Doors not just closing, but slamming shut—for good. And yet: here he was. And so were you. He slowly turned to the side. Your eyes didn’t meet. Not yet. But you knew he’d felt you. (34, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)