I walked the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk on Thursday, from the Manhattan side toward DUMBO, and somewhere over the water I almost texted him.
You know the one. There's always the one. Mine was easy to love and hard to keep, which is a combination the universe should really stop manufacturing.
Walking the Brooklyn Bridge alone is a dangerous emotional activity. The whole city lights up on one side, the water goes black, and you feel like the main character in a film that unfortunately does not have a happy third act.
I had the text typed. Something casual, dishonest in its casualness. Hey, I was just thinking about that time we. You know the genre. A message disguised as nostalgia that's actually a flare gun.
I stood near the first tower, thumb hovering, the F train rumbling somewhere beneath me, and I asked myself the question my best friend always asks. What do you actually want back? Him? Or the version of myself I was when we were okay?
It was the second one. It's always the second one.
Walking the Brooklyn Bridge gave me enough distance to see it clearly. I don't miss him. I miss being twenty-two and certain. I miss the softness before I knew how it ended.
There's a scene in every DDLJ-adjacent film where the heroine chooses herself and the music swells. Real life doesn't swell. I just deleted the draft, put my phone in my coat pocket, and kept walking toward DUMBO where the carousel was glowing and some tourists were taking the same photo everyone takes.
I got a scoop of ice cream at the Fulton Ferry landing even though it's October and that's insane. Ate it watching the bridge I'd just crossed.
Some bridges you cross so you don't have to go back.
Love,