Every street in this city gets a different kind of sunlight.
Some streets bask in golden warmth, while others are caught in an endless game of light and shadow. And then, there are places where the sunlight never quite reaches, where the days blur into nights, and the nights feel like they could last forever.
His neighborhood is one of those places. But tonight, as he walks home, he finds that it doesn't feel quite the same.
He takes the same route, his pace slow but steady. The sounds of the city wash over him—distant horns, murmured conversations, the rhythmic click of heels against pavement. It's familiar. Comfortable.
And yet, for the first time in a long while, he isn't just moving through it. He's noticing things. The way the streetlights flicker unevenly. The faint scent of rain from earlier in the evening. The warmth of his own breath in the cold air.
Maybe it's because of her.
The girl on the bridge.
He isn't sure why he thought about her at all today. She was just a stranger. Someone passing through his life like countless others. And yet, when his shift ended, he caught himself wondering if she'd be there again.
He isn't expecting her to be.
But when he reaches the bridge, she's there.
This time, she isn't crying. She's just standing by the railing, arms resting on the cold metal, staring out at the city.
He hesitates for only a moment before walking over.
"You again," he says.
She turns at the sound of his voice, surprised at first. Then, she smiles—small, barely there, but real.
"You again," she echoes.
He leans against the railing beside her. They don't speak right away. The city fills the silence for them.
After a moment, he glances at her. "No tears tonight?"
She huffs a quiet laugh. "Not tonight."
A pause. Then, she tilts her head toward him, studying him with mild curiosity. "Do you always check on strangers like this?"
"No," he admits. "You're the first."
She raises an eyebrow, as if trying to decide whether to believe him.
"Guess I should feel special, then," she says lightly.
He smirks. "Don't let it go to your head."
That gets a real laugh out of her—soft, but unguarded. He doesn't know why that makes him feel something.
The conversation drifts. They introduce themselves, though their names feel like an afterthought, just another thing floating between them. She asks about his job, and he gives vague, uninteresting answers. He asks what she does, and she tells him she's a student, though she doesn't say much else.
Neither of them pushes for details. It's comfortable that way.
They talk about the city—how it never really sleeps, how certain streets always smell like coffee, how neither of them has ever been to the part of town where the rich live, where the sunlight supposedly shines the brightest.
"It must be nice," she says after a while. "Living somewhere like that."
"Maybe." He shrugs. "But I think I'd miss the night too much."
She hums in agreement. "Yeah. Me too."
Another stretch of silence. This time, it doesn't feel empty.
Then, just as he's about to say something, she shifts away from the railing and stretches. "I should go."
He nods, pushing off the railing himself.
But before she leaves, she glances at him and says, "I'll be here again tomorrow."
She doesn't ask if he will be.
She doesn't need to.
Because as he watches her walk away, disappearing into the night, he already knows.
He'll be back