Does it make me psychotic that some days I stand on this bridge and look across to you? In my mind, I strike the lighter. I toss it and watch the flames climb high enough to swallow everything we ever were. I watch the bridge burn plank by plank, collapsing into the raging river below while charred pieces drift away like ashes with nowhere left to belong.

And honestly? There is relief in it.

Relief in the finality.
Relief in the destruction.
Relief in knowing there would be no way back.

No returning.
No second-guessing myself.
No reopening wounds just to see if they still hurt.

Just fire.
Just freedom.
Just me standing on one side while the past burns itself into memory.

Sometimes I crave that kind of ending. Something absolute. Something irreversible. To close the chapter so completely that even temptation could not rebuild the bridge afterward. To finally stop looking over my shoulder wondering if I should turn back. Because maybe the cruelest part of loving something is that even when it hurts you, part of you still keeps the door unlocked.

And I am tired.

Tired of replaying conversations.
Tired of emotional whiplash.
Tired of missing versions of people that may not even exist anymore.

So I stand there in my imagination, watching the flames roar higher and higher, feeling almost weightless as everything collapses beneath them.

But then…

the lighter will not light.

And suddenly the fire is gone.

The bridge remains standing.

And there I am again, staring across at you from the same side I swore I would leave behind.

Because no matter how badly I want to burn it all down… some part of me still hesitates with the match in my hand.

Maybe because endings are terrifying.
Maybe because grief feels safer when the door remains cracked open.
Or maybe because letting go sounds beautiful in theory until you are actually asked to release your grip.

So back I go again.

Across the bridge.
Back into the memories.
Back into the ache.
Back into the exhausting cycle of almost leaving but never quite managing to disappear.

And perhaps that is the cruel joke of it all:

Not that I cannot burn the bridge…

but that some part of me still hopes you might cross it first.

— Bella Imperia

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