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Karina had been putting it off all summer. “I’ll have time for everything,” she repeated like a mantra when her colleagues returned with stories of trips, late-night beaches, and rooftop movie screenings. She worked late, tucked her beach towel into her closet, and fell asleep to the steady hum of the air conditioner, imagining that there would still be time for the sun, sleepless nights, and the spontaneous decisions that were so necessary.
June was filled with letters and meetings, July with reports and “another” work night, and August stretched out like a scrolling feed on social media: other people’s sunsets and smiling faces flashed by, but she kept putting it off because the summer seemed like an endless bank of vacations that could be emptied tomorrow. She didn’t send postcards, didn’t go to the beach, and refused spontaneous outings in favor of “long-term plans.” Sometimes her friends called her: "Will you come with us on the weekend?" and the answer was, "I'll be there later." One voice in particular, Winter, her best friend, sounded particularly hurtful, with a warm chuckle at the end of her sentence: "Carin, you're just hiding from the summer." However, Carina also delayed responding to her calls, responding curtly or promising to "call back next time."
This "next time" faded away as quietly as the early fog on the waterfront, which she remembered from other people's photographs. Winter sent her photos—from the pier, from the bench outside the café, with the sunset behind her—and each picture was a small reminder: “The world goes on, and you can be a part of it.”
In September, she dreamed of running on sand: slowly, but without stopping, and around her was light that didn’t hold hands. She woke up with a hollow feeling in her chest and a cold certainty that it was time to fix everything at once. She called her friends, wanted to go away for the weekend, buy a ticket to somewhere that smelled of the sea. But reality was not ready to adjust to her impulse: friends already scheduled, tickets are more expensive, the beach is empty and cool, and in place where in the summer played a retro film under the open sky, now there was a construction fence and announcements about reconstruction. It was as if the summer had left her duties and left without warning.
She returned home not devastated to collapse, but with a quiet, tangible loss. She sat on the balcony with a cup of strong tea and allowed herself to look at the things in the box on the shelf for the first time: old photographs, a ticket to last year's concert, and a handwritten note. Karina realized that she couldn't bring back the days. This realization wasn't dramatic; it was a calm, cold fact, but it demanded an answer. Instead of trying to restore July in September, she did what she could: she carefully sorted through the box, retrieved an old letter, and, for the first time all summer, finally responded to those who had been calling into the void. Not because the summer will come back, but because she can regain her respect for her own desires.
She closed the book with the letter, took a deep breath, and whispered aloud, first to herself and then to the world:
"It's strange how things work out. It's like I've spent my entire life learning how to seize opportunities, but I've been following someone else's instructions: how to look good in a photograph, how to report on time, and how to build a career. No one has taught me that there are things that need to be lived rather than planned. And the worst part was that I knew it. Somewhere in the corner of my head, there was a little voice saying, "Go to the beach, answer your friend, tell the woman at the bus stop why you're sad." But I ignored it. It wasn't because I was lazy, but rather because I was afraid of being left without insurance: what if the spontaneity wasn't as beautiful as it seemed? What if the emptiness I felt afterward was too loud?
I always thought I had a backup summer. It's like summer isn't a time, but a resource: you can borrow it or save it. And time isn't a bank; it doesn't bill you in September, make adjustments, or warn you about its closure. It just keeps moving forward. At some point, I woke up and realized that my "later"s weren't promises but excuses.
I don't blame myself for missing out on beautiful sunsets. I blame myself for not noticing the simple joys: the conversation on the bench, the smell of coffee in the morning, the cold sand between my fingers. These things don't shout; they lie quietly in the corners, waiting to be seen. And I didn't give them a chance.
But I don't want to whine and ask for forgiveness, as if forgiveness were a magic wand. Forgiveness is an action. This is a response to a call, this is a ticket for a weekend, this is a postcard to myself, this is a shell in my pocket that I will pull out on a rainy day and remember: I have learned to notice again.
I will not get back July. And that is okay. But I can promise myself one thing: from this day on, I will put off my “lives” less. I am not going to change the past. I am going to change the way I meet the future: more attentively, more slowly, with a willingness to do silly spontaneous things just for the sake of having something to remember later. Let my mistakes become my painting, not its frame. Let every summer after this one be not a to-do list, but a collection of moments I won't let myself lose again."
She fell silent, and in the quiet of the balcony, she could only hear the sound of the city and, far away, the rustling of the waves, as if the summer was whispering in response, "It's not too late."
A few days later, she was consumed by a different desire - to send a message to the world. An idea came to her: a box of sea salt, a bag of sand, and a simple card with the word "sorry." She went to the beach, even though the light rain had washed away the colors of the pier and the cafes were already packing up their sunbeds. The post office on the promenade was almost empty, and her reflection in the window looked surprised and a little older than she had imagined in the photos on her phone. She bought a postcard and instead of "sorry" wrote "I saw": not an excuse or a complaint, but a recognition of the fact that she had noticed and been there, but had not had the time to accept it. She sent the envelope to herself as a small ritual, a promise to remember this poignant clarity.
When the envelope returned a week later with a postage stamp and a slight smell of the store, Karina opened the letter and put it in a book with a bookmark. It didn't bring August back to her, but it turned regret into a physical memory that she could flip through and review. She understood: Regret is not a sentence if you turn it into a lesson.
Winter watched the whole story from behind a cup of strong coffee in her kitchen, and when Karina confessed to her on the phone that she had sent herself a postcard, she laughed softly and said: "It's very hard to do a drama and then get yourself into mail therapy. But it's commendable." Then she added: "Next time we hold each other's hand and don't ask 'maybe.' We're just going."
One warm autumn day, when the air had not yet begun to crisp from the first frosts, Karina packed a swimsuit, sunscreen and an old plaid in a bag — as if she were going to escape — and drove to the place where she once felt free. Suddenly, she saw a familiar figure on the pier: Winter, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and carrying a backpack, waved at her as if nothing had happened, and in her eyes was the invitation that Karina had been refusing for so long. It turned out that Winter had been holding on to the "possible" summer for them: a couple of free days, a train ticket, and the simple rule of not discussing work.
The beach greeted them with a quiet guitar at a cafe and a couple of cats who knew everything about the empty piers. The waves were cooler than in her memory, and people were already wearing light sweaters, but the sun held the remnants of summer in its palm. Winter sat next to her and shared a blanket in silence; there was no pressure between them, just a light, warm companionship. Karina lay down on the blanket and tried to imagine that it was the middle of July. At first, the bitterness brought back a sense of missed opportunities: she couldn't press "stop" and relive those carefree evenings. But after a while, thanks to the simple presence of a friend, she got up and began collecting shells — not for anyone, but for herself. Winter collected her own, fooling around and making jokes about "bad time management," and it helped.
Each shell has become a small trophy, a promise: next summer it will be more attentive, it will answer calls, accept invitations, leave the desktop on time and allow itself empty, unnecessary things, for which summer exists. Winter promised to come to her most stupid ideas and remind her, “Remember, you promised not to procrastinate? Well, do it.”
Summer was indeed over. But not everything important had gone with it. Karina realized that she could still appreciate the moment if she started right now. She made a small list of three things: respond to her friends on the same day, set aside at least one weekend a month for a little escape, and keep a memory of what truly mattered—not in her phone, but in a box on a shelf. They were simple, almost comical commitments, but they gave her a foothold. Winter added another: “And call me at least once every two weeks—I’ll count that as our little lifeline.”
And that’s what remained of her late-blooming enlightenment: not a perfect summer resurrected by a click, but a new habit of noticing. She learned to say “yes” not only to plans but also to herself, to read the letters she’d put off, and to collect small memories, one shell at a time. Karina no longer tried to bring back July; she built the next summer right in the middle of autumn—slowly, deliberately, and with respect for every day that could no longer be brought back, but could still be made meaningful. And Winter was there, the friend who didn’t let her retreat into “later,” but gently pulled her back into the present.