Chapter 1: The Overpass

I find myself once more at the overpass, gazing down at the dark pavement, the wind swirling around me, muffling the sounds of the cars rushing beneath.

As I grip the railing tightly, a wave of dread washes over me. This marks the second visit in just a week. Each time I linger here longer than before. Am I moving closer to a decision? This can't be good. I need to escape this place immediately. After a ten-minute walk, I reach a bus stop nestled beside a strip plaza illuminated by vibrant neon lights. Snow begins to fall, and while I should head home, I choose to remain.

Settling into my usual spot on the bench, shielded from the wind and flurries by the clear plexiglass surrounding the bus stop, I light a cigarette. Observing the patrons of nearby bars and restaurants, I notice couples huddled together, heads down to shield against the cold. Are they truly enjoying this Saturday night, taking a break from their dreary jobs, unruly children, and picture-perfect suburban lives?

The snow begins to coat the sidewalk and cars, creating a delicate white layer. I know I should leave before conditions worsen, yet I find myself waiting, as I always do.

A trio of young men, likely in their twenties and either high or intoxicated, stumbles out of The Blue Lounge. Why that name, I wonder? The establishment isn’t blue at all. They approach me.

"The bus ain't coming, bruh," one of them remarks, the smallest and loudest of the group, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He sports a gray hoodie and a Yankees cap—of course, it’s the Yankees. The others chuckle for reasons I can't discern. "Yo, you got a light?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply, handing him a blue Bic lighter that he inspects thoroughly. A quick flick, and he lights his cigarette, inspecting it again as if searching for imperfections. Satisfied, he tucks it away in his pocket.

"Thanks," he says, before muttering something dismissive as he walks away, laughter trailing behind him. I feel the lighters in my coat pocket—one, two, three, four, five, six. Had the other two asked, I would have shared with them as well.

I remain hunched forward, elbows resting on my knees, for another fifteen minutes after they leave. I should go home, but I stay. It feels absurd. I light another cigarette, counting the butts accumulating at my feet—five in total. The chill intensifies, and as the snowfall thickens, I'm on the verge of standing up when I catch a glimpse of movement in the headlights of an approaching car. It’s a woman, walking alone from D.J.'s Pub across the parking lot.

Her sunflower-yellow raincoat is bright against the dim surroundings, and a scarf the color of a cloudless June sky cascades down to her waist. She surveys the quickly whitening lot before shaking her head and noticing me, making her way in my direction. I instinctively look away, taking a long drag from my cigarette and fumbling with the lighters in my pocket.

She settles at the far end of the bench.

"Do you mind if I snag one of those?" she asks, smiling. "I always end up smoking when I drink but forget to bring my own."

I reach into my coat pocket and, with the awkwardness of a child sneaking a first cigarette, extract the pack, breaking one in the process.

"Oops. Sorry," I mumble.

"Thanks, but I have enough broken things in my life." Her smile is disarming, piercing my defenses. "I know I’m a nuisance," she adds, "but could I also borrow a light?"

If only she knew. I retrieve one of the six remaining blue Bics and hand it to her.

"Sure," I say, attempting sincerity. "Keep it."

"Really? Thanks! My favorite color, too. I had a feeling it would be alright to come over. I don't usually approach strangers at bus stops, but I trust my instincts—this place is so brightly lit. Plus, I saw you smoking, and I really needed one. My boyfriend is late…as per usual. He was supposed to meet me here. He'll probably be late for his own funeral," she scoffs, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

"I'm harmless, I promise," I assure her, matching her drag with one of my own.

"What brings you out here? It's freezing. Waiting for the bus?" She smiles again. "They don’t really run this late, do they?"

Her smile is so captivating; I fear it will shatter my composure. I hesitate to share that I often come here just to observe and wait, so I settle for a simple, "No, they don’t."

"Then are you waiting for someone? They’re late too, huh? This must be where people wait—here at the bus stop?" She chuckles.

Her dark hair frames her face, with bangs brushing her eyebrows. She gazes at me with the largest eyes I’ve ever seen, and they, like her smile, threaten to disarm me.

"Yes, I’ve been waiting a while."

"Who are you waiting for? Do you need a ride or something?"

"A ride? God yes… I mean… no, I'm fine."

Please, I plead silently, don’t smile again. I’m not sure I can take another. But as if reading my thoughts, she beams once more. Suddenly, a car pulls up, honking.

"There's my boyfriend," she exclaims, springing to her feet. "Thanks for the cigarette and the lighter. I hope whoever you're waiting for shows up soon. Don't linger too long; the weather's turning."

"Yeah, it is getting bad," I nod, watching her climb into the car and slam the door. I catch a whiff of exhaust fumes as she rolls down the window and tosses her cigarette into the snow. They drive off, the red tail lights disappearing.

I rise and flick my cigarette to the ground, close to where hers lies. Perhaps tomorrow, I tell myself, but I know there have been many tomorrows, and I’m uncertain how many remain.

As I walk home and cross the overpass, I think of the girl in the sunflower coat and June-sky scarf, her smile that threatens to break me apart. Maybe I do have another tomorrow.

But I don't.

Chapter 2: Fleeting Connections

The second video showcases the official lyric video for "But I Don’t" by JESSIA, which encapsulates themes of longing and the complexities of relationships. It serves as a poignant backdrop to the protagonist's internal struggles.