Bridge of Liberation

The bridge was empty tonight. 

Snow scuffled down his hair as he looked down his feet. The water ran fast tens of meters below him, and despite their rash nature, he felt a calm sensation from them, like they were welcoming him with bright faces. 

There were no cars tonight. There were no people tonight. The bridge was dead silent, and the only sounds he could hear were the city in the distance. He never had the chance to listen to the city’s night before. He was always too busy, but now, he really only had the city to listen to. It was chaos there, but far away from it, it sounded paradoxically peaceful, like he was looking down on the millions of ants scurrying through their streets and houses. 

A horde of memories rushed at him as a soft wind pushed on his cheek.

Maybe he should have listened to his family. He was a natural at math. He won competitions and hit honors he had never expected were possible. He was good at it. But he hated it. He hated every second of it. He didn’t hate the applause nor the pride it gave him. Who would? But he hated the art nonetheless; it was a vicious cycle he couldn’t escape, and it drowned him knowing that one day, without a passion, he’d even lose the fact that he was good at it. 

He gazed down at the river again. As the water crashed against the rocks on the bank and below, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of fear grow in him, and suddenly he couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. He couldn’t leave nor jump; he was trapped. He thought back to his past again. 

Where did he go wrong? His parents thought it was when he applied not for a Math degree but for an English degree. They were against it beyond belief; it was mind-boggling to them, why I’d throw away my lucky talent for something I wasn’t even particularly good at. But it wasn’t to me, and I made my choice.

Did he really make the right choice? Was he ungrateful for thinking he could throw away his gift for something like this? 

His mother died three years into university on Thanksgiving. It came out of nowhere. He loved her more than anything, and still, she died without even being able to speak to him. He was halfway across the country, failing his tests and lagging behind all he grew up beside. If he had done what she had asked three years ago and got into Math, maybe he would have been on better terms with her, and maybe he would have been home for Thanksgiving when she passed.

It was a gut punch. It hurt. It hurt a lot. 

He puffed up his back and slid his body forward. The cold stream buzzed in his ear as he wishfully glanced below. This was what he had left. This was his revolt against such a cruel joke by the world, one that gave him a talent without a passion and a mother without a son. 

He held his eyes closed as he imagined himself falling. It was the only way out. It was his way out. 

But just as he was about to drop, a pair of footsteps echoed against the steel, and beside him sat a woman. She was middle-aged; her soft, black eyes glistened against the water below. She didn’t speak a word; she only hummed a tune he had known since he was young, her mellow hands wrapped around her knees.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” she said. She pointed to the sky. He had never noticed the night sky before until now, but when he saw it, he couldn’t help but agree. It was beautiful, indeed.

“Yeah,” he said. The woman nodded and continued humming her tune.

“Are you going to stop me?” he said.

“You can do whatever you want,” she replied. 

He faced the water. It was his way out, what he wanted to do. He could do it. He could go up to the sky and meet the stars himself.

“It’s funny,” the woman suddenly said. “How we don’t notice what we have as often as what we don’t. I think we like to pity ourselves and get carried away.”

What he had? What did he have? 

He thought of the girl in his class he liked. He thought of his friend waiting for him to call. He thought of the grandma who thanked him for volunteering, the girl who gave him her lunch, and the man who smiled at him when he passed. And, most importantly, he thought of his dad. 

“Do you want to live?” the woman said. “Not be alive; to live.”

Her eyes peered into mine, and she gave me a look that was more than just genuine. 

“Yes,” I said.

She raised her hand and unfurled my phone. It was ringing, and the words “Dad” buzzed on the screen.

“What do I do?” I asked. She gave me a tender smile and placed the phone in my hand, standing up to face the river.

“That’s not up to me,” she declared. “That’s up to you.”

Jaeil Shin is a Junior at Oakridge Secondary School in Canada. Since he was young, storytelling has been his passion and pursuit. Honors he has received include gold and silver keys in the Canada-at-large region's Scholastic Competition and being invited to prestigious events such as the UN ECOSOC Youth Forum.