Summer Without You Fix — The

I named him Proust, because he made me remember things involuntarily.

English 101: Creative Nonfiction Date: April 14, 2026 the summer without you

I stopped sleeping indoors. For three weeks, I took your place on the porch swing, wrapped in the wool blanket that still smelled faintly of your bay rum cologne. I stared at the constellations you taught me—Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia’s W—and tried to understand how the sky could be so indifferent. The stars did not rearrange themselves in your absence. The moon did not apologize for rising. I named him Proust, because he made me

Without you, time broke its contract. As a child, I believed summer was infinite—a lazy river of July afternoons that curved forever. With you gone, summer became a cruel mathematician. It introduced me to the arithmetic of loss: One empty mug in the morning sink. Two unplayed chess pieces on the back patio. Three voicemails I saved on my phone, knowing I would never delete them, knowing I would never listen to them again because the sound of your laugh was now a weapon. I stared at the constellations you taught me—Orion’s