A/N: Working on a different sort of style than what I usually use for short drabbles like this. I think it works well, but let me know if it's too choppy or the run-on sentences get irritating.

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The Bridge

By Emilee Petersmark

He was following you again.

You try to ignore the way the hairs stand up on the nape of your neck, stiff, bristling from the inside out as his aura washes over you. He's so close and heavy behind you; he's breathing down your neck, and his breath smells like clove cigarettes in a way that makes you wrinkle your nose.

So walk to the bridge. He won't follow you there. He never follows you there.

A step onto the platform across the abyss and you feel his presence-- which had up until now been clinging to you like a fog-- evaporate from around you, leaving you feeling lighter. Your heart gives a stretch, slowing its beats and testing its space.

You feel safest once you reach the middle, suspended in midair like a star. He is watching you quietly from the foot of the bridge, lonely.

So you sit, legs dangling between the railing bars and feet pale and solid against the never-ending vacuum beneath them. You sit to keep him company.

"I am going to kill myself tomorrow," he says.

You pull out a cigarette— Newports (your father's favorite)-- and hold it filter-first to your lips, feeling the firm cylindrical tip with the soft flesh of your lips, savoring the shape. You never light your cigarettes, because you don't smoke, but the taste of them and the feel of them is more addicting than any nicotine. On its own accord, your mouth moves around the fag, and you hear yourself asking him, "why?" in a voice that is smaller than your voice.

He does not answer, and though you do not look you know he has seated himself at the awning mouth of the bridge, facing you.

You ask, "What's your name?"

"I'm not supposed to say," he says almost petulantly, "I'm not supposed to say."

"Okay, then."

The cigarette tip has now gone slightly soft and cold from the dampness of your lips. It sits like a kiss against them, and you imagine kissing a boy who smokes (you never have before) and wondering if this is what it would be like.

You swing your feet softly, watching them make swooping patterns against the black and wondering if, on a clearer night, there would be stars dotting the plane below you.

A bridge over stars. The thought makes you dizzy.

"Don't do that," his voice reaches you nervously. "It's not safe."

You don't obey. You are too stubborn for that. "Don't be such a baby," you say.

That shuts him up.

There's a soft rustle of fabric as he retrieves his iPod from his messenger bag and plugs himself in. His music is too loud-- you can hear it from where you sit. Whatever it is, you find yourself hating it.

"Why do you follow me?" you ask him, voice stronger to be heard over whatever crap was filtering into his ears. "You're always following me."

There's a pause, and you fear he might not have heard you.

But then, "... Not always."

"Not always," you agree, "but I know you're there." When he doesn't say anything, you ask again. "Why do you want to kill yourself?"

"It's none of your fucking business!" he snaps, and you recoil without apology. His scent seems like it's growing stronger-- the musky-sweet smell of his smoke-saturated clothing is wafting over you, permeating the crisp night air. You fight the urge to make a face, and swing your legs harder.

"Stop that!" he demands, still angry.

At his tone, your legs still against your will. "What are you listening to?"

He fumes at his end of the bridge, seething in his silence. You debate losing your shoes to see the contrast of your skin against the dark air. The thought of your toes touching sky pleases you.

"Whatever it is," you continue at his sulky lack-of-response, untying your shoelaces, "it sucks."

The brunt of his glare burns even from so far away.

"Why do you like it, anyways?"

He shrugs glumly, face turned downward to meet the stare of the glowing face of the iPod. "I dunno," he mumbles. "Because it's sad."

Your shoes are off, and the air raises goosebumps on your bare skin as it tickles the soles of your feet.

"That's no good," you tell him, cigarette bouncing on your lip as you speak and bare feet swinging free in the dark. "Listening to that crap will only make you feel bad."

You get another half-hearted shrug. "I already feel bad. Maybe I like it because I feel bad. What would you know about it, anyway?"

You sigh, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the rail and peering down through the vertical bars into oblivion. "Not much, I guess."

The silence is as heavy as his presence at your back, heavy as the smell of him in your nostrils.

"Why," you say at last, words muffled by the fag clamped tightly between your lips, "do you keep following me?"

His hand is on your shoulder as he settles next to you, like lead against your muscle and bone. His aura is overwhelming, and his music is so loud you can make out the piano and the violins and the sad, sad voice singing heartbrokenly against it. You stay that way for a long time, with his hand on you and his thoughts swirling like a cloud around your head.

And then, he stands, and you see his tattered tennis shoes so tangible against the rail, tilted forward with laces whipping about in the dark.

"Because you and I wanted the same things," he tells you. "But you never took them."

And then he's gone, into the darkness, into the oblivion beneath and below and around you. You can't smell him, or hear his music, and suddenly you feel very empty and alone.

So, you rummage for your Zippo, strike the flint with your thumb, and bring the tiny flicker to the unlit tip of your cigarette-- still pursed between your lips-- and breathe. Deep.

Exhale smoke over the edge, into the night without stars, and continue down the bridge to the other side. Your hands shake. Your blood rushes. Your lungs breathe. Your heart beats.

But you still feel safe.

He won't follow you there. He never follows you there.

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Reviews are appreciated.