by Swetha Amit
After my breakup two months ago, I stood at the Golden Gate Bridge, where the cold wind pressed against me, trying to push those painful memories out of my head. I could almost taste the ghostly white mist braiding itself between the rusty red railings, around which I trace my long fingers, yellowish nails, and chipped polish, remembering how we both used to say our bond was special and unbreakable while we strolled on Crissy Field, watching the geese, spent late nights at the bars in sunset district and hiked on the trails near Lands End. Below me, the azure-blue water, with pearl-white sails, appeared calm, which was unfair given the state of my wrecked, tumultuous mind, mulling over the way he callously said he was moving to New York and how long-distance relationships don’t work for him. Behind me, every car or person whizzed by with a thud, as if time were moving on unfeelingly without waiting for my permission. I felt a sharp stab of pain slicing through my stomach, wondering how love can come and vanish so fast without an explanation. I turned away from the railing and stared at the rusty-red bridge towering above me, staying firm and resilient in the same place, and I was forced to accept this change and cross the bridge like those cars and people.
Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir and three chapbooks, she has appeared in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction. She can be found on @swethaamit on Instagram and @whirlwindtots on Twitter.
Photo Credit: by Sonny Mauricio on Unsplash
