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Zuzu isn’t a city where people live. Millions toil tirelessly, burdened by exorbitant rents and the weight of overpriced necessities. But in all your years of life, you can’t recall the last time you saw a denizen of Zuzu laugh, or create art, or spread kindness. In fact, you can confidently say that not one of the 8.3 million souls that surround you in this city is truly alive. It’s as if the pulse of vitality has been suffocated by the corporate grind. In your youth, you navigated the city’s labyrinthine alleys, searching for signs of life—a spontaneous burst of laughter, a splash of colour on a drab wall, a moment of genuine connection between strangers. All you found were weary faces, the heavy silence of resignation, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment.
But now, you walk with intention as the cold chill of the night air settles deep into your bones. Night has descended like a heavy cloak, shrouding the landscape in a veil of darkness. Above, the moon rises like a sentinel amidst a sea of shimmering stars, their watchful gaze seeming to follow your every step through the dense forest on the edge of Zuzu. Amid this celestial spectacle, the forest comes alive with nocturnal symphonies—the hoots of owls echoing through the dense canopy, while the occasional rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath your hiking boots punctuate the stillness. Each step forward is a battle against exhaustion and fatigue, blisters forming on your feet from hours of relentless trekking. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, a constant companion on this solitary journey through the darkness.
Your favourite hoodie drapes over your shoulders, a gift from an old friend whose name now eludes you. Your backpack, light and inconsequential, occasionally slips from your shoulder as you trudge forward. Ahead looms your final destination: a concrete suspension bridge, a vast monumental structure steeped in the history of your home town—a history you always wanted to learn. Too late now, you think.
As you make your way across the bridge, your gaze falls upon a figure perched on its rail, dwarfed by the towering cityscape beyond. The river below churns restlessly as they gaze pointedly into the water, the distant hum of passing cars blending with the rhythmic crash of waves 250 feet below.
“Don’t,” the stranger’s voice, firm and resolute, cuts through the night as you approach. They make no attempt to turn towards you; instead, he takes a final drag of his cigarette and drops the rest in the river beneath.
“…Don’t what?” you respond, pausing in your steps. The stranger chews his lips, his grip on the railing firm. The silence is unbearable.
“Get to know me, ask questions, stop me. Just don’t bother trying anything.”
“Oh, I… wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, your tone casual as you shrug off your bag, letting it fall to the cold concrete below.
A shaky exhale escapes the stranger’s lips; you watch the mist rise into the cold air in the moonlight. Leaning back against the bridge’s railing, the stranger’s eyes meet yours, searching for something you can’t quite decipher. There’s a vulnerability in their gaze, a flicker of uncertainty that belies the firmness of their earlier words.
You sit in silence for a few minutes, and take the opportunity to ease the remaining tension out of your hands and arms, stretching your fingers until the joints no longer ache. The stranger seems content enough to let you have your quiet, though you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye occasionally.
“Want a snack?” you offer, pulling out a half-eaten family-pack of cookies from your bag.
The stranger’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Wh— No, I… Are you serious right now?”
“Extremely,” you say, biting into a cookie before extending the pack towards the stranger, “You’ve never thought about your last meal before? Always thought mine would be an actual meal… but cookies aren’t that bad, I guess.”
As you speak, you can’t help but notice the tension in the stranger’s posture. Their grip on the railing doesn’t loosen, although they do tentatively accept a cookie from the pack.
“Did my mom send you to get me or something?” he sniffs, breaking you out of your daze; his voice tired and hoarse. His suspicion should bother you, but at this point you’re far too tired to feel much of anything.
“No dude, I told you— I’m just waiting for my turn.” The motor traffic behind you continues to speed by, radios and horns blaring in a Dopplerian cacophony. As their headlights silhouette your form, the man beside you is perfectly illuminated, his face stark against the darkness. Behind him, the full moon casts a halo around his hood.
He is your age, if not a bit younger. His exhaustion is evident in bloodshot eyes, monolid and green; his sunken cheeks exaggerate the lifelessness of his pale skin.
You’re the first to break eye-contact, letting out a soft chuckle as you fetch your phone from your pockets, “Just a coincidence, I guess.”
He looks at you with a curious stare, like a cat studying a moving shadow. No one in this city has ever looked out for him the same way you are; It’s peculiar how alone one can be surrounded by as many people as Zuzu city contains.
Your earphones are now plugged in; and lost in your melody of favourite song, you can’t see the awe of his gaze. Moments pass in this newfound comfort— be it from mutual understanding, or a fear of disruption— before you turn to face the stranger once more.
“Did you wanna listen with me? Just for a song or two.” You look towards him as you sit down on the bridge, offering up your left earphone.
You aren’t naive, you recognize what you’re doing. Hell, you’ve been doing it your entire life. You’re stalling. Desperately finding excuses to delay what you fear will be the inevitable: one way or another, the stranger will leave. You’ll be alone again.
But right now you’re not alone, and that’s good enough.
The stranger finally swings his legs over the rail of the bridge, and plants his feet firmly on the concrete of the superstructure. He sits besides you, timidly puts an earphone in his left ear, and cries.
As the minutes stretch into hours, the initial tension between you and the stranger dissolves into a shared silence, punctuated only by the soft strains of music. The reasons for your presence on the bridge fade into obscurity, replaced by a sense of companionship born from the serendipity of the moment. With each passing song, the darkness of the night gradually gives way to the gentle hues of dawn.
Neither of you notice the transition, until your phone dies.
“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” The stranger’s voice wavers, a fragile whisper amidst the fading light. You turn to him, a smile softening your features, before rising from your seat with a languid stretch.
“Stranger things have happened. Why wouldn’t our paths cross again?” Your words carry a gentle reassurance as you gather your belongings, mentally preparing for another day at the JojaCo. office.
“Well, I mean… I’m moving soon, somewhere out of Zuzu— My mom is probably packing up all my shit right now so we can move in with her new boyfriend.” Weariness etches lines of exhaustion on the stranger’s face as he rubs sleep from his eyes.
“Still, we’ll see each other again one day,” you smile, shielding your eyes from the rising sunlight, “I just know it.”