A Bridge Between Seasons

There's a bridge in the town of Elswood that people all walk over without even giving it a second thought. Wooden planks. Gentle groan when you step over the middle one. River beneath, slow and slow. It's not terrific or famous, but for a time, it was the hub of my little world.

That's where I saw him—on a foggy October morning, when I was sketching the way the water received the first light.

"Do you always paint with your eyes shut?" he asked, his voice cutting quietly through the stillness.

I glanced around. He was a short distance away—tall, with a camera around his neck and that look some people have when they've been walking too long.

"Only when I know the scene by heart," I told him, a smile dancing at the corner of my mouth.

And so it started.

He was named Jonah. A nature photographer, traveling through towns nobody ever puts into words, chasing stories in sunlight. He'd been warned that Elswood Bridge "hummed at dawn." He didn't find the hum, but he saw me. Or we could both find something.

He started showing up every morning. I took my sketchbook; he took his camera. I documented skies. He documented light. And in between, we talked about grief, joy, beloved children's books, the things that changed us, and the things we still didn't understand.

We never rushed into love. It built slowly, like mist seeping in—unnoticed at first, then suddenly everywhere.

One morning, near the end of November, when the cold nipped a little harder than it was apt to, he addressed me.

"Ever consider moving? Just picking up and leaving?"

I shrugged. "All the time. But this is a place full of fragments of me. What about you?"

He paused. "I usually move before I get too comfortable. It's less complicated that way."

And that was the first time I experienced a spark of fear. Already, I was used to him.

And he didn't leave. Not then.

He stayed on through the first snow. Through steaming mugs of soup and shared playlists and laughing at how badly I did at pretending to like coffee. He stayed on through quiet nights, when we didn't talk but didn't need to.

He stayed long enough for love to be something real, not a possibility.

We stood on the bridge on New Year's Eve—scarves tied, hands cradling—and watched fireworks explode in the air like hope.

"I used to believe bridges were only for crossing," he said.

"And now?"

He looked at me. "Now I believe they're for a meeting. For beginnings."

But love is not always a straight line.

By March, the river had thawed. And he just didn't show up one morning.

I waited at first—minutes seemed like hours. Then the letter.

Lila,

I wish I were braver. But I'm still wired to run. Still afraid of something good.

I've left something for you—a roll of film. It's all I saw when I looked at you.

Sorry.

—Jonah

I didn't cry initially. I walked to the bridge as I normally do, opened my sketchbook, and drew the spot where he used to lie.

Sometime later that week, I developed the film.

There were no horizons. No trees and rivers and birds against the sky.

Only me.

Me laughing.

Me drawing with wind in my hair.

Me on the bridge, eyes closed, face turned upwards towards the sky.

Each photo a love letter he'd been unable to pen.

Sorrow doesn't always come in storms. Sometimes it comes like quiet. Like listening for footsteps that never come. But still, I kept going to the bridge. Kept drawing. Kept showing up—to myself, not to him.

Because I realized something: love isn't everything about who remains.

It's also everything about what remains.

The manner in which a person gazed at you. The manner in which they rewrote the lines of your days. The courage they leave when they depart.

And slowly, life continued.

Spring merged into summer. The river accelerated its flow. The bridge was filled with tourists. I kept on painting skies and selling prints in the local bazaar. My world was quiet, but not broken.

A full year later, I felt the creak of the middle plank again.

"Do you always paint with your eyes closed?"

I didn't turn immediately. Half of me wasn't sure I was not dreaming.

But when I did turn, Jonah was standing before me—older in the eyes, same camera draped around his neck, same quivering hope in his voice.

"I mastered how to remain," he said, moving a step closer.

I said nothing.

I just walked to him, placed his hand gently on my cheek, and closed my eyes.

The bridge didn’t hum.

The wind didn’t whisper.

But the sky?

The sky opened like forgiveness.

If you’ve ever lost someone, or watched them leave just when things felt real—know this: not every goodbye is permanent. And even if it is, love can still be a gift. A teacher. A mirror.

Sometimes the heart just requires room to cease. And for me, that room was a wooden bridge, in a tiny town, with one lone middle plank that creaked beneath your weight—as though it recalled, too.