Every street in this city gets a different kind of sunlight.
There are places where golden light pools like melted honey, drenching streets in warmth, making the world feel softer. In others, the sun barely grazes the tops of high-rises, casting long shadows that stretch endlessly. And then, there are places like his neighborhood—where the sun never quite reaches, where the buildings stand too close, where the sky is nothing but a sliver of gray between rooftops.
He doesn't mind it.
Not really.
His days are predictable. He wakes up early, gets dressed in silence, and leaves for work before the city has fully come alive. The office is just another box within the city's endless maze, where numbers fill spreadsheets, and conversations are minimal. He isn't particularly close to his coworkers, but that's never bothered him. There's something comforting about routine, about knowing exactly how a day will unfold.
Tonight, like every other night, he walks home at the same slow, measured pace. The streets are alive with their usual sounds—cars rushing by, distant laughter from restaurants, the hum of a world that never quite sleeps. He doesn't pay attention. His path is set, his mind elsewhere.
And then he sees her.
A girl on the bridge. Alone. Crying.
She's sitting on the railing, arms wrapped around herself, her head lowered. From a distance, she looks like she's trying to disappear into the night.
He stops.
This isn't his business. People cry all the time in this city. He's seen it before—couples arguing in alleyways, drunk men muttering apologies to no one, students staring at their phones with tears streaming down their faces. It's just another part of life here.
And yet.
He can't seem to walk past her.
Before he fully realizes what he's doing, his feet are already moving.
"…Hey," he says, his voice uncertain. "Are you okay?"
She flinches slightly but doesn't look up. "Yeah. I'm fine."
A lie. A practiced one.
He shifts awkwardly. He isn't sure what to say next. He isn't the kind of person who strikes up conversations with strangers.
Still, something about her—about the way she sits there, alone, like the world has forgotten her—makes it impossible for him to just leave.
So, instead of walking away, he moves closer and sits down beside her.
There's a long, stretching silence. He wonders if this was a mistake. Maybe she wants to be left alone. Maybe he's just making things worse.
"You know," he says finally, "I read somewhere that crying is good for you. Clears out toxins or something."
She lets out a quiet laugh—small, barely there, but real.
"That sounds fake," she murmurs.
"Probably is," he admits.
Another pause. The wind moves through the bridge, carrying distant city sounds with it.
Then, she exhales and straightens up. "Thanks for talking to me," she says. "But I'm okay now."
She stands up before he can respond, brushing nonexistent dust off her clothes. Then, with a small nod, she walks away, disappearing into the city.
He doesn't follow.
He just sits there for a moment longer, staring at the empty space where she was, before finally heading home.
In his part of the city, the sun never reaches. But tonight, as he unlocks his door, he finds himself thinking—
Maybe that's not entirely true.