we won’t be meeting by the fountain. The tradition was short-lived but felt significant. From the time we met through the time I left, it was always in October that we met there and enjoyed each other’s company.

The first year, I liked you. We sat on the steps by the fountain late one night, exchanging only a few words. “You know what I really can’t stand?” you started. You never finished, leaving me only my best guess to this day. Eventually, we ventured away to the music building where I listened to you play a piece you composed on the piano. You called it the “Rain Song.”

The next year, we were close. And I was unhappy. We met some afternoon, and I vented all my troubles to you. The exam. The breakup. The stroke. How I no longer knew what I wanted to do with my life. I told you I loved the fall. But I hated falling out of love and out of place. I talked, and you listened. And you talked, and I listened. But mostly, I talked, and you listened.

That last year, we left the student center and sat by the steps. “It’s always this time of the year that we do this, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah. It is.”

We joked about the games we used to play and came up with our code phrase for anytime we were in dire need of a heart-to-heart. We talked about how far we’d come since that first year. And how you had forgotten the Rain Song. My latest crush. What we hoped to achieve in the coming year.

It’s October again. And it could make or break me.

A bad day. Feeling overwhelmed again, I sought you out. I vented as much as my fingers would allow me to, but I never felt any better. It just wasn’t the same. I felt displaced.