Autumn is for Hopeless Romantics

There’s something about autumn that awakens the hopeless romantic in me.

Maybe it’s the chill in the air, the earlier dusks, or simply the season’s permission to lean into a certain gothic mood.

I think of Coppola’s Dracula (1992); Winona in black lace, Gary Oldman’s hunger disguised as longing, every scene staged like a tragic opera. It remains the most romantic kind of horror: love that ruins, devotion that haunts.

Now I’m waiting (perhaps impatiently) for Luc Besson’s Dracula: A Love Tale. I haven’t seen it yet, but even the idea of it feels magnetic. A new Dracula for a new season, another reminder that every retelling is less about monsters and more about the impossibility of love without destruction.

It’s almost October. Vampire season is here. And really, what’s more chic than surrendering to ruin when it comes dressed as romance?