The river looked quieter than usual that evening.
It wasn't that it had slowed down. If anything, it moved with the same steady certainty it always had, carrying small reflections of the sky that broke apart as soon as they formed. But the world around it felt hushed, like it was waiting for something to happen and didn't want to interrupt itself.
We sat on the low concrete edge near the bridge, legs dangling above the water.
The surface below caught fragments of fading light, dull silver and pale blue, stretching and folding with the current. Every now and then, a ripple would distort everything, and the reflection would disappear entirely, only to return a moment later as if nothing had happened.
Cars passed overhead at regular intervals. Their sound was distant, flattened by the space between us and the road above. Each one arrived, crossed, and was gone again, leaving the quiet intact.
We hadn't planned to come here.
We never did. That was the strange thing. Somehow, whenever there was nowhere specific we needed to be, our steps carried us to familiar places without discussion. The bridge had always been one of them. A place to sit. To think. To let time pass without explanation.
She leaned back on her hands, fingers spread against the cool concrete.
"It feels strange," she said.
"What does?" I asked, even though I already had an idea.
She searched for the right word, eyes following the movement of the water below us. "Everything being… done." She let out a small breath, almost a laugh. "At least this part of it."
I nodded. "I keep feeling like I forgot something."
"Me too," she said. "Like there should be another exam. Or another deadline hiding somewhere."
She shifted slightly, adjusting her position, and I noticed how tired she looked—not exhausted, but worn down in a way that suggested she'd been holding herself together for a long time.
We sat without speaking for a while.
The air was cool but no longer sharp. Early spring had a way of pretending to be gentle before reminding you it wasn't done with winter yet. A breeze moved across the water, lifting the faint smell of damp earth and stone.
I watched her stare at the river, her expression distant, thoughtful.
"Have you thought about what you'll do next?" I asked.
The question felt heavier than it sounded.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she picked up a small pebble near her foot and tossed it into the water, watching the ripples spread outward before fading.
"I think about it all the time," she said finally. "I just don't always like the answers."
"Why not?"
She shrugged. "Because everything I think of feels temporary. Even the things I want."
I thought about that for a moment.
"I might go somewhere else," she added, still not looking at me. "Not far-far. Just… not here."
"Oh."
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
She glanced at me, gauging my reaction. "You don't sound surprised."
"I'm not," I said. "You've always wanted to see what else is out there."
She smiled faintly, like she wasn't entirely sure that was true. "Have I?"
"Yeah," I said. "Even when you didn't talk about it."
She turned back toward the river. "What about you?"
I hesitated.
I had answers ready. Vague ones. Safe ones.
"I'm still figuring it out," I said.
"That sounds like you," she replied.
"How?"
"You always wait," she said gently. "Like you're hoping something will line up on its own."
I didn't argue. I didn't know if she was right, but I knew she wasn't wrong.
We fell quiet again.
There were other questions sitting just beneath the surface of the conversation. I could feel them there, pressing gently, waiting to be asked.
Would you miss this place?
Would you miss me?
Would we still matter to each other when this ended?
Instead, I asked, "Do you want to stay in touch?"
The words felt small as soon as I said them.
She turned to look at me, surprised—not by the question itself, but by the timing.
"Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't we?"
"Even if things get busy?"
"They will," she said. "But yes."
The certainty in her voice eased something in me, even though I didn't fully understand why.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her sketchbook, resting it on her lap. She didn't open it immediately. Just held it there, thumb tracing the edge of the cover absent-mindedly.
"I haven't been drawing much," she said.
"You said that before."
"I know." She smiled softly. "I keep telling myself I'll start again properly once everything settles down."
"Does it ever?"
She considered that. "Probably not. But I like pretending it will."
She opened the sketchbook then, flipping through a few pages quickly, too quickly for me to see anything clearly. The pages moved past like memories you weren't allowed to stop on.
"You still won't show me?" I asked.
She closed it again. "Not yet."
"You always say that."
"And one day," she said, meeting my eyes briefly, "I won't."
I didn't know why that answer stayed with me.
A car passed overhead, louder than the others, its shadow cutting briefly across us. When it was gone, the quiet felt deeper, more deliberate.
"Do you ever think," she said, voice lower now, "that one day we'll wake up and this won't feel real anymore?"
"This?" I asked.
"All of it," she said. "Like it happened to someone else."
I looked at the water again, watching the way it carried everything forward without pause.
"I think we'll remember," I said slowly. "Even if it feels far away."
She studied my face for a moment, like she was trying to commit something to memory.
"I'm glad we came here today," she said.
"So am I."
The sky had darkened noticeably now, the colors flattening into muted tones. Streetlights flickered on one by one along the road above us, their glow reflecting faintly on the surface of the river.
We stayed there longer than we needed to.
Eventually, she sighed and stood, brushing dust from her palms.
"I should go," she said. "It's getting late."
I stood as well, my legs stiff from sitting.
We walked back toward the road together, our steps slow, unhurried, like neither of us wanted to be the first to leave the space behind. At the edge of the bridge, she stopped.
"After graduation," she said, "things will probably get busy."
"Yeah."
"But we'll figure it out," she added, as if reassuring herself. "Somehow."
"Somehow," I repeated.
She smiled, then turned away, heading toward the station with that familiar, energetic rhythm. I watched her until she disappeared into the flow of people, the sound of the river still moving steadily behind me.
On the walk home, I realized something I hadn't allowed myself to think about while we were sitting there.
We'd talked about the future.
About leaving.
About staying in touch.
We'd asked the kinds of questions people ask when something is about to end.
But we hadn't talked about us.
And I didn't know whether that was because we didn't need to—
or because neither of us was ready to hear the answer.