“Our Names in the Bridge” Derry, Maine — Summer, 1986

The sun had just started to dip low, casting long golden shadows across Derry. The air was warm, thick with the scent of pine and pavement after a hot day. You and Bill walked side by side, sneakers crunching over gravel as you followed the winding road down to the old Kissing Bridge — the one kids whispered about, the one with hearts and initials carved into its bones.

It was quiet, except for the hum of crickets and the occasional splash of water in the creek below. Bill’s hand brushed against yours, hesitating just for a moment before he intertwined his fingers with yours. His palm was warm and a little sweaty, but neither of you minded.

You looked at him — his freckles, his soft brown eyes, the way his hair curled slightly from the summer heat. Thirteen years old and already feeling things that were too big for the world to understand.

“I-I read somewhere…” he started, his voice catching like it always did when he was nervous, “…th-that when y-you carve your names on the K-Kissing Bridge, it means you’ll be t-together forever.”

You smiled softly, heart thudding. “Do you believe that?”

He looked down, scuffing his foot on the old wood of the bridge. Then he met your eyes, his cheeks tinted pink. “W-With you? I want t-to.”

You both walked to the center of the bridge, where hundreds of carved names and hearts stretched across the railing. It smelled like old wood and summer. Bill pulled something from his pocket — his pocket knife. It was small, the kind a kid might sneak from their older brother or borrow from a friend.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, feeling like this moment was something sacred.

He nodded. “I-I want everyone to know… that y-you’re m-my person.”

He handed you the knife. “W-Want to do it together?”

Together, slowly and carefully, you carved it.

B.D. + [Your Initials] Inside a crooked little heart.

It wasn’t perfect. The letters were a little shaky, and the wood splintered in spots. But it was real. It was yours.

When you finished, Bill tucked the knife away and looked at your names, then back at you. “M-Maybe in ten, twenty years… we’ll come b-back. And it’ll still be here.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping closer.

Then he leaned in. It wasn’t much — just a short, soft kiss on your cheek, his lips barely brushing your skin — but it was the kind of thing that made your stomach twist and your chest feel full and warm all at once.

You laughed, and he did too, eyes lighting up.

And for a second, the world felt like it stopped. There was no fear, no darkness, no “what if.” Just you, Bill, the creaking bridge, and the promise carved into its rail.

A summer secret. A quiet kind of forever.