Me On The Bridge

On the night of Christmas, just a day before, I lost the most precious person in my life. That same night, I went out for a walk with my old friend. It had been years since we last spoke, and though we didn’t talk much in those years, we had so much to share.

I knew the past years hadn’t been kind to him—he had lost so much during that time, and I wasn’t there to stand beside him in his hardest moments. The reason was her—his lover, his girl. I had tried to warn him, told him she wasn’t right for him, but he wouldn’t listen. Our friendship suffered because of it.

He lived only in his own world, refusing to step out of it. He believed that ignoring the future would somehow make everything better. But I kept telling him—every choice he was making was wrong in every possible way. Still, just like everyone else, he ignored me and my words.

I can’t blame him completely, because during his hardest times I only made things more complicated. I never truly tried to understand him—I judged his every action. I thought I was trying, but to him, I never understood at all. I knew he was in pain, but I had no idea how much it really hurt. Now I know.

He once told me that he feels everything—every word, every moment, every memory. He said it was too much for him to hold, but I told him, “You can.” And whenever I said that, he smiled. I knew my words gave him a little happiness. Yet, deep inside, I always questioned myself—why don’t I feel everything like he does?

After he broke up with his girlfriend, he shut himself off from everyone. Slowly, he stopped trusting people. I believed that breaking up with her would make things right, because I always thought she was the problem. So I gave him time—time to heal, time to figure things out. But instead, he lost himself completely. That’s when I knew it was time to act.

So, I called him. At first, everything felt awkward. He didn’t want to talk about his past, and I didn’t pressure him. We just started calling often, and though he rarely showed up, the days kept passing. Slowly, he began to laugh again, and seeing that made me happy.

Now, I feel it’s the right time to open up—the secret I’ve been hiding for years.

Yes, I loved him. Making him laugh, making him happy—that made me feel alive. And I think, maybe, I’m the only one who can truly make him happy. But I didn’t want to confess this over the phone. I wanted to do it in person—at the place that meant everything to us.

The bridge.

The place where we laughed, where we cried, the place that built our friendship. That’s where I wanted to tell him the truth.

Surprisingly, he agreed. This time, we decided to meet at the church, and from there, take a walk through the bridge—just like the old days.

After the church, we finally met again. He looked so happy to see me—I could feel it in the way he smiled, in the way he held my hand as we walked together, just like kids, as if nothing in the world could bother us.

The bridge that night was silent, peaceful, and bathed under a starry sky. I didn’t know where to begin. I looked at him—his smile was bright, yet his eyes… his eyes were covered in tears. Why was he smiling while his eyes silently wept? I had noticed it even back at the church. I wanted to ask, but he never let me.

We sat near a streetlamp on the bridge, talking about our younger selves. I knew he hadn’t completely healed, not from everything, but I also knew that when I was with him, he was always happy. I loved talking about the future, and he listened to every word, though he didn’t say much in return. So I asked, “What is your future plan?”

He only smiled again. Then he said softly that he just wanted to hug me. And he did. He hugged me tightly and whispered, “I’m sorry—for everything. Sorry for not listening, sorry for avoiding, sorry for ignoring all your words.”

I told him it was okay, that he could take all the time he needed. He smiled once more, and then we both fell silent. He looked up at the starry night as if he was seeing it for the very first time.

I thought—this is the right moment. My heart raced. I was nervous, afraid. What if he didn’t accept me? But what if he was happiest only when he was with me? Gathering all my courage, I finally spoke.

“I love you.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I saw his eyes fill with tears again. He didn’t respond right away—I waited, desperate for an answer. Finally, he turned to me, looked into my eyes, and said, “I love you more than you think.”

Then he went silent. That silence broke me. I forced a smile, though my eyes grew wet with tears. He held my hands tightly, whispered “Thank you,” and then slowly let go.

He stared into the darkness beyond the bridge and said softly, “I found the light.”

That made me cry harder. I tried to wipe my tears, but before I could, in the next second—he was gone.

There was only the sound of water splashing below. No struggle, no fear—just silence. A silence deeper than anything I had ever experienced. A silence, calm and haunting—like his smile.

And finally, he let go of everything—his smile—and left me alone to suffer. Because it was my destiny to suffer, and he knew it more than me. Yes, he loved me… but why did I take this much time to confess my feelings? He was always there for it, always waiting for it. Why did I ignore him? Why did I let him suffer?

Why??

Now I know what that smile means, what that silence means. All this time he was preparing for this moment.

For letting me alone?

Maybe.

Because we are the same—

Same body but different persons,

Different reasons.

Now I can see the view from underwater.

The eyes stay alive, looking upward once—toward the bridge, toward the past.

And now they are looking downward, like the past itself falling from the bridge into the dark.

Searching for the light.

The Last Breath Chapter 1 The Needle And The Thread.

They say this room is always silent because of him.

But to him, it was too noisy, too messy.

He didn’t know where to begin, or where to go, so he stayed.

It felt like a kind of love—yet also a prison.

He was trapped here, with himself.

Every morning feels like a new beginning,

yet the needle is still tied to the thread.

It’s as if he cannot truly start over.

At first, he liked it this way—

the gentle stitching of days into something whole.

But with time, the thread grew tighter,

and the needle grew sharper.

Now the needle can pierce through even the hardest surfaces,

dragging the thread behind it,

snagging on everything and everyone—

an invisible cloth weaving itself around his life.

Sometimes it looks beautiful,

but sometimes it feels like the worst thing to wear.

What do you do after waking?

Go to the toilet? Brush? Take a bath?

But what if you never slept—

and because you never slept,

you never truly woke up?

Then what would you do next?

At first, he believed night and day were different.

But slowly he understood:

the only difference was in the beauty—

the beauty of darkness holding its silence,

and the beauty of light breaking through it.

They existed only because of each other,

connected like the needle and the thread.

Connected, like him.

But there is horror, too.

The night never lets him sleep,

and the day never understands his pain.

They are connected,

but they can never be the same.

It feels like a curse,

stretching across an endless sky,

with endless time.

He is a fool—

still believing this is only a bad dream,

still hoping to wake from this reality.

Or is it a dream? Who knows.

Which one can save him?

It is his decision to believe what he wants.

But he is always wrong, and he knows it.

Yet he will never embrace the truth—

because the truth is pain,

and the pain is far heavier than this story.

Once, his parents loved him—

but they loved him for being someone else.

And the weight of that love

was heavier than anyone could ever carry.

He couldn’t share it,

because no one can share their weight.

You can only give others what they want.

Then, maybe, they will understand you.

But if you don’t know what they want,

they will never notice you at all.

So he tried to be himself, just once.

But the people around him were not ready.

They never let him.

They tried to stop him,

using the wrong needle and the wrong thread.

Now he is tangled in it—

knotted, bound, lost.

No one knows what he is anymore.

Is he still lovable?

Still trustworthy?

Or is he trapped in a dream

that stole his “self” with its needle?

Or… did he choose this?

He loved everyone,

and they loved him back—

but only for what he showed on the outside.

He didn’t want that kind of love.

Yet he couldn’t blame them,

because he never showed the truth.

Fear held him back.

Fear of abandonment… maybe.

He never wanted to be alone.

But looking forward,

he is alone now.

Alone inside the walls he built himself,

walls he refuses to break,

walls that refuse to let him through.

Is it because of past traumas?

Is it because he tried, once, to be himself?

Now he lets no one in.

It’s as if he is completely gone.

Only memories remain,

strong enough to tighten the thread.

He knows he cannot go through

another hard surface.

His needle is sharper now,

but thinner—fragile.

He is afraid of breaking it.

What if the needle snaps?

What if no new needle can be found?

Or… is it even possible?

And in the silence of the tangled threads, the shadows began to speak.