We used to meet here, in this secluded area underneath the bridge. We leaned against the stone wall and skipped rocks into the river. Cars rushed overhead, driven by people who knew where they were going and knew what they wanted.

We knew what we wanted too.

Alice wanted to be on Broadway. She had a beautiful voice and beautiful eyes. Tom wanted to hike Mount Everest. He was five foot two but his soul was taller than any mountain the world. Lane wanted to see how small the Earth was from the moon. The stars weren’t half as bright as his eyes.

Me? I wanted to be a writer. A poet. A philosopher. John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Emily Dickinson. I have a bump on my left middle finger from how I always held a pencil too hard.

But adulthood came too fast, and it tore through us like a tiger rips its prey to shreds.

This place looks different in the winter. It was always too cold in December and January to hang out here, so we chatted at Joey’s Diner. This might be the first time I’ve seen the bridge like this: blanketed in snow, black ice covering the streets, icicles hanging from the bottom like teeth about to grind up and swallow my past until none of it is left and I am not even nothing, I just am.

Cars don’t drive on this bridge anymore. It’s too old. It’s been worn down with time. Nobody bothered to fix it, they just built a new bridge a few hundred meters away. It’s made of steel.

Life feels stagnant here. I lost my purpose a long time ago, back at Yale. I feel as frozen in time as the icicles that stare down at me, threatening to fall and pierce me straight through the heart.

I miss their warmth. I miss their fire.

They burned.

I’ve kept up with them on Instagram. Alice couldn’t make it to Broadway, but she teaches high school drama in Seattle. Tom just backpacked in Patagonia. Lane works as a computer engineer for NASA.

They’re happy. They’re fulfilled. I know them, even if it’s been years since we spoke.

If they returned to our spot under the bridge, they could make the ice melt and the snow disappear. They could heal the ruined bridge and bring cars back onto it.

But not me. Because I’m not happy. I’m not fulfilled. Life was harder than I expected, and I paid the price.

But twenty years ago I could have burned.

I miss our warmth. I miss our fire.

We burned.