Beneath The Overpass

Beneath the overpass, covered in colors of different spray paints, dead leaves, empty cans, and spider webs. Besides the rare vandal, it's unvisited. Secluded and safe from the world around it, it's where we met each other's gaze. Where we stumbled around and called it dancing, where we sat and contemplated life and existence, where we shared moments we would take to the grave.

As I made my way down the cliff, I looked forward to our spot, our time together, our own mini life we've built for ourselves. Brown hair, hazel eyes, and a bright smile await me as I cross the rocks to reach my part-time home. We sat on the log we've scraped clean of moss in the past weeks. We talked and told stories, and talked about our days. The time flies so fast I don't even realize it's time to head back. Living on different sides of the bridge means we can never walk home together, or see each other from time to time. When we aren't beneath the overpass, we don't exist.

The overpass comes with dangers, many on the way to, and possible ones while we're there. We didn't care, we preferred it that way, it kept it safe from others. It was worth it to see each other every day. But, I knew, soon the trip wouldn't be worth it anymore.

I'm told about the move. The leaving. The abandonment. Parents fearing the people in town, across the bridge, beneath the overpass. Learning the closest thing I have to family won't be returning floods my head with fear and sadness. My brain feels like the stream that runs under the bridge, filling with rainwater in a hurricane. With only one day left after this, we plan how we should spend it together. Fumbling, talking, laughing, sharing. I look forward to our last day.

As I make my way down the cliff, I stare forward to what will no longer be our spot. Our last time together, the mini life we've built together crashing down around me. I cross the rocks to reach the underside of the overpass. But, instead of finding brown hair and hazel eyes awaiting me, I find a pale sheet with pitch black ink. "I'm sorry. I couldn't bring myself to face you, knowing it was the last time I ever would. I don' t expect you'll ever forgive me for this, I don't think I will either. But just know we'll always have the time we shared away from the world"

A week later, I woke up with tear soaked sheets. For the 7th day in a row, I read the note found in my ruined home. I can't help but wonder what could have changed things, if we had walked home together, if we had met somewhere else, if people weren't afraid of who could be beneath the overpass.