The Bench on Sixth Street

I saw her again today.

Not her, exactly. Just someone who looked like her — same dark curls tied in a loose knot, same way she tucked her coat around herself like the world was colder than it actually was. She sat down on the bench across from the bookstore on Sixth Street.Our bench.

I hadn’t walked this way in months. Not since last November, when I left her standing there with tears she wouldn’t let fall. She had that look — the one that screamed, “Don’t let me go,” even while she stayed silent. And I had that arrogance — the kind that thinks walking away is strength when it's actually fear.

But today, I stopped.

The woman who looked like her had a red scarf. Ella never wore red. Said it made her feel like she was shouting in a room full of whispers. She liked soft things. Lavender tea, poetry books with cracked spines, and music that sounded like rain.

God, she loved the rain. Used to say it washed everything except memory.

I watched from across the street. The fake-Ella checked her phone, sighed, and eventually walked off. I stood frozen, my hands deep in my coat pockets, heart punching through years of pride and regret.

That bench was still hers. Still ours.

I remember the first time we sat there. Summer, sticky heat, iced coffee in hand. She had just found out her mother was sick, and instead of crying, she talked about constellations and how stars die slowly, beautifully. I didn't understand it then — how people grieve sideways, avoiding the heart of the thing. But I understand now.

We sat there on birthdays, after fights, between classes. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter. Sometimes pretending we were fine when we were anything but.

It became the only place where honesty didn’t feel dangerous.

One evening, she asked, “If we ever lose this… promise me you’ll come back here someday.”

“Why?” I laughed.

“So I can haunt you, obviously,” she smirked, nudging my arm. “Also… so you’ll remember.”

I didn’t ask what she meant. Maybe I didn’t want to know.

It’s been 412 days. I counted.

I’ve replayed that last conversation like a song with lyrics I keep trying to change. We both made mistakes — sharp ones, stupid ones. But mine was worse. Mine was final.

She texted me once after. Just one line.

“Do benches remember the people who break promises on them?”

I never replied. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Too much. I didn’t know how to answer a question like that with a yes.

But now, standing here, hands trembling slightly in the cold, I realize what she really meant.

The bench isn’t wood and metal. It’s a museum of moments. A witness. A monument to what was — and maybe what could’ve been.

And the truth is… I came back because part of me hoped she would too.

I sit down slowly, like I’m afraid it might reject me. The air still smells like city dust and faint espresso. I close my eyes.

For a second, I pretend she’s sitting beside me again. That her laugh still echoes here. That I can turn to her and say all the words I never found in time.

I whisper them anyway, to no one.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened.”

And then… I feel it.

A tap on my shoulder.

I open my eyes.

She's standing there. Different scarf. Same eyes.

"Hey," she says, softly.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

She sits down beside me.

We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We just sit — like we used to. Like nothing’s broken, even though we both know it is.

And maybe… that’s enough.

Maybe some places don’t just remember us.

Maybe they forgive us, too.