“Kissing Bridge” Derry, Maine – Summer 1986

The sun was starting to sink behind the trees, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It was one of those perfect summer evenings in Derry—warm but breezy, with the smell of pine and something sweet from the ice cream stand two blocks down.

Bill Denbrough walked next to you, his hand brushing yours every now and then, and each time it did, your heart skipped just a little. You didn’t mind the silence between you. With Bill, silence never felt awkward—it just felt safe. Like the world could keep spinning and you two would stay right here, frozen in your own little bubble.

Your sneakers crunched on the gravel path as you crossed the wooden planks of the Kissing Bridge—that old, half-forgotten covered bridge near the edge of town. The one with hearts, initials, and love confessions carved into its beams and railings, dating all the way back to the ’40s. It was kind of cheesy… but it was also romantic.

Bill stopped walking.

You turned to him, the light catching the reddish-gold in his hair. His cheeks were slightly flushed, either from the heat or from you. Probably both.

“D-Do you… Do you know why they call it that?” he asked softly, nodding to the old bridge.

You smiled. “Because people come here to kiss.”

He laughed a little through his nose. “Y-Yeah. I mean, I read about it in the Derry Record. Said a couple carved their names here after the war, and now it’s like a tradition.”

You looked around at all the names etched into the wood. So many couples from so many different years. You could almost feel the memories lingering—ghosts of love stories, first kisses, breakups, makeups.

You looked back at Bill, who was nervously picking at a loose thread on his shirt. “We could carve ours,” you said suddenly.

His eyes shot up. “Y-You think so?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Why not? It’d be our little secret.”

He smiled—slowly, shyly. “O-Okay.”

You found a spot just beneath someone else’s carving that read J + M 1964. Bill reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty pocket knife—the same one he used to help with bikes and whittle twigs when you were bored at the Quarry.

“You do it,” he said, handing it to you with a small smile. “You’ve got better handwriting.”

Your hands trembled a little as you pressed the blade into the wood. It wasn’t easy, but you took your time, careful and focused. After a few minutes, it was there:

B + (Your Initial) 1986

Bill leaned closer, brushing your arm as he looked at it. “It’s perfect.”

The air between you shifted. Softer. Closer.

“I-If we’re here in twenty years,” he said suddenly, “I wanna come back. With you. See if it’s still here.”

You looked up at him. “It will be.”

His hand found yours again, and this time, he didn’t let go.

The cicadas hummed, the last sunlight filtering through the cracks in the wood. And then, shy and sweet, Bill leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to your cheek.

Your heart felt full—like summer, and stars, and the kind of love that stays.