Bridge of love

We met on the bridge. Not metaphorically-an actual bridge, lit by city lights and the buzz of midnight traffic. She was dancing barefoot, tipsy on wine and moonlight, and I-too curious for my own good-stopped to ask if she was okay."

She wasn't. But neither was I. That night turned into weeks, weeks into months. We didn't fall in love-we crashed into it. She loved chaos; I loved trying to fix it. Every touch sparked like fire, every kiss lingered too long, and yes, lust was there, shameless and wild. Naked skin and whispered lies-those nights made us feel immortal.

But love built on desire alone can't hold forever.

The twist? I thought I had her. Thought I could be enough. But some hearts are just borrowed, never owned. One night, back at the same bridge, she said, "This place felt like a beginning. Maybe it's where we end too." She kissed me once more, slow and soft. And walked away.

I stood there, still wanting her like sin. But love-real love-isn't about chasing. It's about letting go when they no longer look back.