I walked out of the Ukrainian meeting space where people were dancing, trying not to show people the tears starting to run down my face.
Walking with determination, I made my way over to the bridge and stared out at the city of Minneapolis. I was alone.
I wondered if anyone was wondering where I was. Wondered if anyone cared. I wanted so badly to receive a call or text from someone. To see someone outside looking for me. I looked at my phone – nothing. 30 minutes later – still nothing.
Well, obviously no one gives a fuck, so….
I started walking again, and found a path that led under the bridge. Graffiti lined the bridge walls, ranging from “Fuck you” to “It is what it is.”
I found myself at some train tracks, with a bright light up ahead.
Stepping onto the train tracks. Looking at my phone. Still nothing. Tears streaming down my face.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
The train starts to move a little bit.
Well obviously the driver sees me, so…
I step off the tracks and back away, watching the train pick up speed and pass by.
I hear someone coming up behind me, hoping it was him or at least a friend.
Turning around, I see a stranger. We exchange hellos, and he starts walking towards the train.
I start walking back. Arriving at the Ukrainian, I see him sitting in a chair near the entrance, looking distraught. We start walking outside. I’m cold, he gives me his denim. We start talking.
We end up back under the bridge, sitting on the edge of another bridge over water, the Gold Medal Flour sign shining brightly against the midnight sky.
It was there he told me he has never been able to open up to anyone. And this likely wasn’t going to change soon.
”It’s not that I’m not willing to, it’s that I can’t,” he said.
“I understand,” I said, not really understanding.
So he ended it.
It is what it is.