Scars Of Summer — After

Now we are in the after . The season hasn’t ended on the calendar, but you can feel the shift. The light is different—lower, honey-colored, desperate. The garden is a mess of overgrown zucchini and tomato vines that have finally given up. The beach towels smell faintly of mildew and regret.

But the sun is a liar. A beautiful one.

But for now? Wear your scars like constellations. They are the only map you need. What scar did your summer leave you? Tell me in the comments. scars of summer after

Summer exposes. You wore less fabric, showed more skin, ate the ice cream, drank the beer. You have the mosquito bites, the scraped knees from that clumsy bike ride, the callus on your finger from paddleboarding. Your body holds the map of July. In the after , when you put the long sleeves back on, you feel the ghost of that exposure. It’s a scar you can’t see, but it aches when the wind turns cold. Now we are in the after

Now we are in the after . The season hasn’t ended on the calendar, but you can feel the shift. The light is different—lower, honey-colored, desperate. The garden is a mess of overgrown zucchini and tomato vines that have finally given up. The beach towels smell faintly of mildew and regret.

But the sun is a liar. A beautiful one.

But for now? Wear your scars like constellations. They are the only map you need. What scar did your summer leave you? Tell me in the comments.

Summer exposes. You wore less fabric, showed more skin, ate the ice cream, drank the beer. You have the mosquito bites, the scraped knees from that clumsy bike ride, the callus on your finger from paddleboarding. Your body holds the map of July. In the after , when you put the long sleeves back on, you feel the ghost of that exposure. It’s a scar you can’t see, but it aches when the wind turns cold.