A Chill in the Air, A Hollow in the Chest

The wind picked at the loose threads on Laurie's sleeve, a persistent, cold nuisance. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, the chill seeping through the thin cotton. He watched Ben, who stood a few metres away, closer to the railing, his shoulders hunched. Ben's hair, darker now, almost black in the muted light, whipped around his face. He didn’t seem to notice the cold, or maybe he just didn’t care. Laurie remembered a time when Ben would have been shivering, complaining about the wind biting his ears, rubbing his hands together for warmth, and Laurie would have offered his scarf without a second thought.

He remembered when they were happy. It wasn’t a distant, fuzzy memory; it felt like last week, though a year had passed since that kind of easy joy had lived between them. That particular brand of happiness had been a rough-hewn thing, full of scraped knees, inside jokes, and the kind of fierce, unwavering loyalty only teenagers could muster. It was the feeling of Ben’s hand, calloused and warm, brushing against his, not quite accidental, on the walk home from school, the silence comfortable rather than crushing. It was the way Ben would grin, all teeth and crinkling eyes, after Laurie made a particularly terrible joke. Laurie missed that grin more than he’d admit.

Now, Ben’s profile was sharp, etched against the bruised autumn sky. His jaw was tight. He wasn't looking at Laurie, not really. His gaze was fixed on the river below, as if searching for something lost in its murky current. Laurie shuffled his feet, the gravel crunching loud under his worn trainers. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the quiet that was more an absence than a calm. But what? The words felt like stones in his throat, too heavy to push out.

"Cold, eh?" Laurie managed, the words thin, almost swallowed by the wind. It was a stupid opening. Obvious. He cringed internally.

Ben gave a noncommittal hum, a sound that could mean anything or nothing. He didn’t turn.

"Why here?" Laurie tried again, his voice a little steadier this time. He knew why. They both did. This bridge had been their sanctuary, their secret. But he needed Ben to acknowledge it, to acknowledge *them*.

Ben finally turned, slowly, his eyes meeting Laurie’s. They were the same deep brown, but now they held a kind of wary distance, like a wild animal cornered. "Felt like it," he said, his voice flat, rough around the edges. He hugged himself, arms folded tightly across his chest, a barrier. Laurie’s gaze snagged on the faint, barely visible scar above Ben’s left eyebrow, a relic from a clumsy climb up a fence they shouldn’t have been scaling. He remembered patching it up, Ben wincing, but laughing, a low, rumbling sound that made Laurie’s stomach flutter.

That laugh was gone now. Everything felt muted, like the sound was coming from behind a thick pane of glass.

"It's been a while," Laurie said, the unspoken 'since we were here, since we talked, since we were okay' hanging heavy in the space between them. A lone crow cawed overhead, a harsh, lonely sound.

Ben shrugged, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. "Things change."

"Yeah," Laurie agreed, the bitterness a surprising taste on his tongue. "They do. But… do they have to change like this?" His voice cracked a little on the last word, and he hated himself for it. He hated the vulnerability, the way Ben’s gaze seemed to flicker over him, assessing, before settling back on the river.

Ben sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to pull at Laurie's own chest. "What do you want me to say, Laurie?"

"I don't know!" Laurie burst out, louder than he intended, the frustration finally bubbling over. He took a step closer, then another. The wind tugged at his hair, messing it into his eyes. "I want… I want you to look at me. To talk to me. To explain why you just… ghosted. Why everything went cold." He gestured vaguely between them, a desperate sweep of his hand.

Ben’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of steel entering their depths. "There was nothing to explain." He turned fully away then, presenting Laurie with his back again, the rejection a physical blow. Laurie felt his jaw tighten, his hands clenching in his pockets.

"Nothing to explain?" Laurie echoed, incredulous. "Ben, we were… we were everything. You were my best mate. And then…" He trailed off, the memory of Ben pulling away, the sudden silences, the unanswered texts, a dull ache behind his ribs.

Ben’s shoulders tensed. "Life gets complicated. People grow up."

"Is that what this is?" Laurie asked, his voice low, dangerous. "Growing up? Because it feels a lot more like you just… decided I wasn't worth the effort. Like I was something you could just cut out."

Ben finally moved, pushing himself off the railing. He walked towards Laurie, slowly, deliberately. Laurie braced himself, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Ben stopped just in front of him, close enough for Laurie to smell the familiar scent of old denim and the faint, underlying notes of something musky and uniquely Ben. But even at this proximity, there was still a wall between them, thick and unyielding.

"It wasn't like that," Ben said, his voice softer now, almost a murmur. His gaze was still guarded, but there was a flicker, a brief spark of something Laurie couldn't quite decipher. Regret? Pain? Laurie wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, to feel if the wall would crumble. But he didn't dare.

"Then what was it, Ben?" Laurie pressed, pushing his luck. "Tell me. Please. Just tell me." His voice was barely a whisper now, raw with desperation. The chill in the air seemed to intensify, wrapping around them both.

Ben ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture Laurie knew well. "It's… it's not simple, okay? My mum… things with my mum. They got… worse." He looked away again, towards the distant horizon where the grey clouds were gathering thicker, promising rain. "And… and then everything else just felt… too much. You. Us. It was… too bright. And I couldn't… I couldn't deal with bright things back then. Didn't deserve them."

Laurie stared, his breath catching in his throat. Ben’s mum. He knew she had been unwell, had been for years, a quiet, lingering illness that Ben rarely spoke of. He hadn’t realised how deeply it had been affecting him. Laurie had been so wrapped up in his own hurt, his own confusion, he hadn’t seen the full extent of Ben’s struggle. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unwelcome.

"Ben…" Laurie began, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming empathy. He reached out, his fingers brushing Ben’s sleeve, a hesitant, feather-light touch. Ben flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but he didn't pull away completely. Laurie saw the tremor in Ben’s hand, the white knuckles where he gripped the railing behind him. "You always deserve bright things. Always."

Ben scoffed, a dry, humourless sound. "Easy for you to say." He still wouldn't meet Laurie's eye fully. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand!" Laurie pleaded, his hand now resting more firmly on Ben’s arm, a silent plea. The fabric of Ben's jacket felt coarse beneath his fingertips. "That's all I've ever wanted. To understand. To be there. You pushed me away, Ben. You just… shut me out. And I… I didn't know how to get back in."

A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the mournful whistle of the wind. The clouds above seemed to darken perceptibly, pressing down on the ravine. Laurie held his breath, waiting, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He could feel the warmth of Ben’s arm beneath his hand, a small, fragile connection in the vast, cold space they’d created. He wanted to pull him closer, to just… hold him, like they used to, back when a hug was just a hug, and everything felt simple.

Ben finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over Laurie’s face, searching, assessing. His eyes were wide, and for the first time, Laurie saw not just wariness, but a profound, raw pain reflecting in their depths. A single drop of rain splattered against Laurie’s cheek, cold and stark.

"I…" Ben started, his voice barely audible over the rising wind, "I didn't know how to ask for help. Or if I even could. And with you… with us… I thought I was going to ruin it. Everything."

The rain began to fall in earnest then, a sudden, cold downpour, drumming against the metal of the bridge. It plastered Ben’s hair to his forehead, streamed down his face, blurring his features. Laurie, despite the sudden chill, felt a warmth unfurl in his chest. A crack. A tiny, fragile crack in the wall. He squeezed Ben’s arm gently, his thumb tracing the coarse fabric.

"You wouldn't have ruined anything," Laurie said, his voice firm, unwavering, despite the sudden onset of rain making his words feel small. He stepped closer still, the rain now soaking through his own hair, running down his neck. "We could have faced it. Together."

Ben didn't respond immediately. He just stood there, letting the rain wash over him, his eyes fixed on Laurie’s, a turbulent sea of emotion swirling within their depths. The silence stretched, heavy and profound, as the world around them blurred into a grey, watery canvas. Laurie felt a desperate hope surge, a flicker of that old, bright feeling, even as the cold rain drenched them both. He saw Ben’s lips part, a hesitant breath escaping, a word forming, perhaps, but then a sudden, sharp crack of thunder split the air directly overhead, making them both jump. Ben’s eyes, wide and startled, darted upwards, and in that instant, Laurie saw a flash of fear, raw and unguarded, before Ben stumbled back, pulling his arm away, and without another word, turned and started running.

Laurie stood there, drenched and bewildered, watching Ben’s retreating figure disappear into the grey curtain of rain, the thunder still rumbling in the distance. He had been so close. So incredibly close to… something. He didn’t know what. But now Ben was gone, leaving him alone on the echoing bridge, with only the cold rain and the fresh ache of unanswered questions for company.