The Bridge Between Us
There’s something about bridges — how they stand, unassuming, but silently connecting two worlds. People pass over them every day, hardly noticing the weight of their own footsteps. For most, it’s just a structure. But for me and Kara, that bridge was everything.
We met on a bridge. Not in some grand, cinematic way, but in the quiet, ordinary shuffle of daily life. I was rushing to class, late as always, and she was sitting on the railing, staring out at the water below. At first, I thought she was just another passerby, but something about her presence felt different — like she wasn’t just there physically, but existing in a space I couldn’t yet understand.
I wouldn’t have stopped. I had no reason to. But she called out to me, her voice cutting through the hum of the city.
“Do you ever wonder where all the lost dreams go?”
I halted mid-step, caught off guard. Who asks a question like that to a complete stranger? But the sincerity in her eyes drew me in. I looked out at the river, the gentle waves lapping against the sides of the bridge. “I don’t know. Maybe they sink.”
She smiled — a smile that held more mystery than warmth. “Maybe. Or maybe they float, waiting for someone to find them.”
From that day on, the bridge became our meeting place. Every afternoon, like clockwork, I’d find Kara perched on the railing, lost in thought. We’d talk about life, about dreams — mostly hers. She was a dreamer, the kind of person who believed in magic tucked into the corners of everyday life. She’d talk about wanting to travel the world, to write stories, to find meaning in the smallest things. I listened, not because I was a dreamer myself, but because her words made me feel like I could be.
One day, she brought a sketchbook — a thin, worn thing with pages crinkled at the edges. She opened it and showed me drawings of places she’d never been, people she’d never met. “This is where I’ll go,” she said, pointing to a small village sketched in soft pencil. “And here,” tapping a city skyline, “is where I’ll live for a while.”
“What about here?” I asked, pointing to the empty page.
She glanced at it, her smile faltering for just a second. “That’s for later,” she said softly.
The weeks turned into months, and the bridge became our world. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was falling for her, for the way she saw the world in colors I couldn’t even name. She was like a firefly — impossible to catch, but captivating to chase.
Then, one day, she wasn’t there.
I waited. Days passed, and then weeks. The bridge felt emptier without her, like it had lost its purpose. I kept showing up, hoping to see her sitting on the railing, that mischievous smile waiting for me. But she never came.
It wasn’t until a month later that I found a small, folded note wedged into the crack of the bridge. My name was scrawled on the front in her familiar handwriting.
“I’m chasing those dreams, just like I said I would. Don’t forget to find yours, too. Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. Until then, keep walking the bridge.”
There was no return address, no sign of where she’d gone. Just her words, left like a whisper in the wind. And just like that, she became another dream — one that I hadn’t lost but wasn’t sure I’d ever find again.
I still visit that bridge sometimes. I stand in the same spot where we used to talk, staring out at the river below. I wonder if Kara found what she was looking for. Maybe she’s out there, sketching the world, filling in the empty pages of her book. Or maybe, just maybe, she’s sitting on another bridge, waiting for someone else to answer her question.
As for me, I’ve started to dream a little more. Not in the same way she did — my dreams are quieter, smaller — but they’re mine. And every time I cross a bridge, I think of her, of that day she asked me about lost dreams. Maybe they don’t sink after all. Maybe they float, waiting for us to be brave enough to follow them.
