My Favourite Season Summer ●

It hummed and rattled in the window of my bedroom, making all the right noises, but the cool air it promised was a myth—a faint, apologetic whisper against the tropical onslaught outside. I lay on top of my sheets, a sweaty starfish, listening to the cicadas fire up their tiny, frantic engines. It was the first official day of summer vacation, and the world had turned into a green, buzzing, delicious sauna.

“Pool?” Sam asked, shaking his wet hair like a golden retriever. my favourite season summer

The air conditioner was a lie.

I’d walk home, squelching in my sneakers, dripping on the front mat. My mom would just shake her head, hand me a towel, and point to the bathroom. “You’re crazy,” she’d say. “All of you.” It hummed and rattled in the window of

The thunderstorm.