Here is the modified version. I took out the headlines and let the thoughts flow like a stream. I dialed up the emotion and the philosophy, but kept the words simple and the sentences short.

​Have you ever tried to hold water in your hands? The tighter you squeeze your fingers, the faster it slips away. That is exactly what time feels like to me. I feel it the most right now, as the air turns crisp and the world starts to change colors.

​I walk through the park and watch the leaves falling. It’s a funeral and a celebration all at once. The trees are teaching us the hardest lesson in the universe: how to let go without screaming.

Spring always feels like a promise. It’s a first date, full of nerves and hope. Summer is the loud party that follows—it’s vibrant, hot, and you feel like you are invincible. But Autumn? Autumn is the quiet morning after. The music stops. The noise fades. And you are left alone with your thoughts.

​That wild fire inside me, the one that burned so bright in July, starts to settle down. It doesn’t go out, but it changes. It becomes a small candle instead of a bonfire. It’s peaceful, sure. But it’s also heavy. In that quiet light, I find myself looking backward. I replay old memories like a favorite movie, wishing I could jump into the screen. It hurts a little, knowing those scenes are over. We humans are funny that way. We mourn the sunset while the stars are already coming out.

​I look at the trees and I feel a little jealous of their wisdom. They turn gold and red, dressing up for their final act. Then, they just let go. They don’t cling to a dead leaf saying, “But I need this to feel safe!” They don’t worry that they will look empty or weak. They stand naked against the cold wind, fully trusting that spring will return. They know a secret that I keep forgetting: you have to be empty before you can be filled again.

​Me? I am not a tree. I am stubborn. I hold onto things that weigh tons. I carry old relationships that ended years ago, replaying the “what ifs” in my head. I carry guilt like it’s a heavy backpack I’m not allowed to take off. I hug my old failures, afraid that if I drop them, I’ll float away into nothingness.

​Why is it so scary to just be? To just exist without the weight of yesterday?

​Walking on the crunching leaves helps. Snap, crunch, snap. It’s the sound of the past breaking down to become food for the future. The earth takes the dead leaves and turns them into life for the spring. Nothing is ever truly lost; it just changes shape.

​Maybe that is what I need to do. I don’t need to force myself to forget. I just need to loosen my grip. I need to let the memories settle on the ground like a blanket, keeping the roots warm but not weighing down the branches.

​It is okay to change. It is okay to not be the same person you were last year. The trees don’t apologize for losing their leaves, and maybe we shouldn’t apologize for outgrowing our old selves either. Letting go isn’t an ending. It’s just taking a deep breath out, so you have room to breathe in again.