The city never keeps its promises.
It promises new beginnings in every sunrise, only to let them fade by noon. It promises to remember—stories, moments, people—but everything drowns in the endless rush of its own existence.
People forget.
Memories blur.
Promises break.
He wonders if she believes that too.
Tonight, she's already on the bridge when he arrives. She's sitting on the railing again, legs crossed, arms hugging herself against the wind. But something is different.
She isn't just staring at the city. She's lost somewhere else.
For the first time, he feels like an intruder. Like stepping closer might shatter something fragile.
But he does it anyway.
"You're early," he says.
She blinks, as if pulled back into reality. A pause—then a small, distant smile. "So are you."
He leans against the railing beside her, hands in his pockets. "Couldn't let you have all the fun."
She chuckles, but it's faint. Hollow.
Tonight, the silence between them isn't comfortable. It stretches, heavy and unspoken, until she finally breaks it herself.
"You're probably wondering why I was crying that night."
He doesn't answer right away. He had wondered, of course. But now that she's about to tell him, he isn't sure if he wants to know.
"Someone made a promise to me," she says. "Two years ago."
Her voice is steady, but there's something beneath it—something quiet and aching.
He stays silent, letting her continue.
"He said they'd meet me here. This bridge, this spot. Same date, same time. No matter what."
A slow breath. She looks down at her hands. "I waited."
He doesn't have to ask what happened next. The answer is right there, written in the two years of silence that followed.
"He never came."
The city hums around them. A car passes below. Somewhere in the distance, laughter spills from a bar. Life keeps moving, unaware of the quiet unraveling happening on this bridge.
"He must've had their reasons," she says, almost to herself. "Maybe things changed. Maybe he had a change of heart."
"Maybe," he says, because it's all he can offer.
She exhales, tilting her head back. "I don't even know why I waited this year. It's stupid, right? Two years is a long time."
"It is."
"But I still showed up." She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Pathetic."
He looks at her then—not just at the surface, but past it. At the quiet exhaustion in her eyes. At the weight of something she's carried alone for too long.
"It's not pathetic," he says simply.
She turns to him, surprised. "No?"
"No." He shrugs. "You kept a promise. Even if they didn't."
She blinks, as if the thought never occurred to her.
For a long moment, she doesn't say anything. Then, finally, she lets out a soft sigh. "Maybe that's worse."
He doesn't argue. Maybe she's right. Maybe holding onto something that's already gone hurts more than letting it go.
But he doesn't say that either.
Instead, they sit there in silence, watching the city that forgets so easily.
And when she finally gets up to leave, she looks at him—not with the same distant, half-there expression from before, but something steadier.
"I'll be here tomorrow," she says. Then, a little softer: "If you will be."
And for the first time, she's the one waiting for an answer.
He meets her gaze. "Yeah," he says. "I'll be here."
She smiles. And this time, it reaches her eyes.
As he watches her disappear into the night, he realizes something—
Maybe some promises don't have to be broken.