They said the summer would heal me whole, sun on my skin, a sip for the soul. A season of gold, of joy unrolled, of memories sung and stories retold. They said I'd laugh till my ribs would ache, with salty air and splashes at stake. They said I'd dance where the sunsets break, but all I felt was the silence wake. I waited. Waited like rain for a desert sky. Like letters lost and never replied. Waited for warmth that would never arrive, for a flicker of feeling to whisper: Alive. But August came, and brought the blaze, the scorching heat, the hollow haze. I walked the beach with drifting feet, but found no pulse beneath the heat. Children ran, sand in their hair, laughter light like it had no care. Lovers lay with fingers twined, in sunswept scenes I couldn’t find. Families toasted, ice clinked bright, barbecue smoke and fairy light. But their joy was glass I couldn’t touch, a movie reel I watched too much. I traveled far with empty shoes, through markets bright with every hue. I ate new meals in crowded lanes, but every flavor tasted the same like gravel, grief, and muted shame. The mango turned to marbled stone. The wine just burned. I chewed alone. You see, they sold me summer like a dream all light and warmth and mango cream. But no one said it could betray, that sun can shine and still decay. They never warned me: some hearts feel cold when everything around them glows. Some memories are sharp like glass, too sweet to touch, too strong to pass. I thought I’d feel what I felt back then, the road trips, songs, my mom’s old den. My father’s voice on winding roads, my cousins’ jokes in secret codes. But summer now just mocks the sound. It spins the globe but leaves me drowned. And so I write. I write to feel. I write to prove that ghosts are real. Because in this heat, I bear a frost, a quiet echo of what I lost. While others dance in light and dust, I sit alone with August rust. So if you see me by the shore, don’t ask me why I want no more. Don’t ask me why my smile is thin, or why I flinch when light gets in. Just know: not every soul can sing with sun, some only bloom when summer's done. And if I seem a little slow, a little distant as breezes blow it’s just that August came with all its fire... but winter’s what I came to know.