Autumn has always felt like a story half-read, something distant and unfamiliar to me until I moved to Budapest five years ago. Before that, I’d only ever traveled during spring or summer, the seasons of growth, light, and bloom. Autumn, with its slow unraveling, its shedding of the old, was something I never fully experienced. And yet, the first time I saw Budapest draped in amber and gold, I was filled with a kind of longing—nostalgia, almost, for memories that weren’t mine.

The leaves here fall in quiet whispers, collecting in corners like secrets waiting to be shared. There’s something comforting in the way they let go, in the reminder that life, too, must release what no longer serves it. Autumn taught me that, though I missed its slow, melancholic beauty for much of my life, it’s never too late to feel its pull, to sink into its nostalgia.

Growing up, the seasons I knew were full of sunshine and rain, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d have felt more at home in autumn’s quiet decay. There’s something about this time of year that brings back memories of simpler times—the days of handwritten letters, where every word carried weight, and long phone calls over landlines that felt endless, as if time paused with the ring of the phone. I imagine the weight of mixtapes, carefully curated with songs that meant something, slipping into the hands of someone important. It makes me long for the time when connection was tangible—when a conversation wasn’t interrupted by notifications, and people shared moments rather than content.

The crisp air carries with it the echoes of laughter shared under dim streetlights, the kind of late-night talks that left you warmer than the sweater draped over your shoulders.

Walking through the city now, watching the leaves turn from green to gold, I’m reminded of the beauty in things that are fleeting. It feels like autumn has always been waiting for me, holding space for reflection, for the nostalgia of a time when life felt slower and more deliberate. The falling leaves remind me of how we used to slip notes into lockers, each message carrying a secret, a promise, or a hope. Now, we send messages in seconds, but there’s no weight to them, no lasting impression like the letters I never received.

Budapest’s cobblestone streets, the way the Danube quietly moves beneath its bridges, amplify that feeling. There’s a kind of romance in the way autumn lingers here. It invites you to slow down, to remember, and to hold onto the pieces of the past that still matter. And though I never knew autumn before, it has become a season of reflection for me—a time to honor what was, and to appreciate what remains.

Maybe that’s what autumn is for—to remind us that it’s okay to let go, that there is beauty in endings, and that even as the world around us changes, there’s something timeless in the way it moves from one season to the next.