Bedouine - Long Way to Fall | The Walk Past the Closed Station

Editorial Review & Soundscape

The Walk Past the
Closed Station

Long Way to Fall

Bedouine

The plastic chairs were stacked upside down on the tables, and the neon signs of the late-night diners flickered out one by one. You walked a few steps ahead of me, your shoulders tilting slightly to the left, resembling someone who had carried heavy grocery bags for miles. We had just left a basement room full of loud laughter and clinking bottles, but now the silence of the paved road stretched out like a steep drop. You paused at the crosswalk, staring blankly at the red signal even though there were no cars in sight. I noticed the way your worn-out sneakers shifted hesitantly against the asphalt. You were standing right on the edge of the curb, looking down at the metal storm drain as if it were a vast canyon, and the sheer weight of your quiet breathing made the distance between us feel impossible to cross.

"I stood perfectly still, watching the damp patches on the ground left over from yesterday’s rain, wondering how a person is supposed to support another when their own center of gravity is dangerously off."

I kept my hands shoved deep inside my coat pockets. I saw your fingers trembling beside your thighs, instinctively needing something solid to grip, but I couldn't bring myself to reach out. It wasn't out of indifference. My own palms were cold and unanchored, and I feared that if you leaned your weight on me, my weak knees would buckle, pulling us both down onto the hard concrete. I wanted to pull you away from that invisible drop, away from the hollow reassurances we had just smiled through indoors, but my mouth only offered the pale, useless mist of my own breath.

Once the streetlamps hum and finally click off, the night thickens into a slow, viscous crawl. You know this hour better than anyone—the moment the front door clicks shut, the locks are turned, and the only remaining task is to unlace your shoes in a dark, empty hallway. I recognized that familiar dread pooling in the slump of your neck right then. To be the only one left awake when the rest of the city has pulled down its shutters is to feel the ground continuously giving way beneath your heels. The tall stories we tell ourselves to make it through the daylight hours thin out here. They become transparent, entirely unable to hold the heavy gaze fixed onto a blank apartment wall.

— The asphalt doesn't care who walks on it.

I stepped off the curb first. I didn't look back to offer a grand, hollow promise that tomorrow the pavement would be softer or the walk back home any shorter. I only knew that I had worn the soles of my shoes down on these exact, unforgiving streets a season earlier than you. The asphalt doesn't care who walks on it, but the friction of moving forward is sometimes the only warmth we get. I kept my pace slow, letting my heels strike the ground with a steady, deliberate thud. I just kept walking straight down the dim avenue, listening closely to the quiet street, waiting to catch the faint, dragging sound of your footsteps trailing somewhere behind me.

The Keys Left on the Cabinet

I reached my building before the sun decided to show up. I didn't turn on the living room light; instead, I simply placed my keys on the narrow wooden cabinet by the door, the metallic clink sounding louder than usual in the empty space. I sat on the edge of the mattress without taking off my coat, watching the faint gray hue slowly begin to seep through the gap in the curtains. I thought about the physical distance between your front door and mine, wondering if you had also managed to turn your key in the lock, if you were also sitting in the dark, feeling the cold fabric of your collar, just breathing in and out as the morning forced its way in.

The Footsteps Following Mine

Joan Shelley

"Cost of the Cold"

The shared chill of the night air, realizing that the price of keeping our distance is the very frost settling on our coats.

Fenne Lily

"Car Park"

Standing under the flickering streetlamps of a deserted lot, waiting for the courage to move when the ground feels like a trap.

Julie Byrne

"Follow My Voice"

Listening for the rhythm of your heavy exhale in the dark, a silent map through the streets where the last trains have already left.

Cassandra Jenkins

"Crosshairs"

The quiet resignation of being caught in the sights of another's grief, knowing exactly how much it weighs because it is my own.

Atmospheric Soundscapes & Editorial Notes