every time i walk home from work, i always take the route that brings me through campus. it's a terrible campus, especially at night. none of the buildings match. just a poorly planned maze of asymmetrical window panes, and boldly coloured metal pillars, and blocks of brutalist concrete. i don't know why i do it. it's not any safer than the streets that surround it. it's not any quicker, either.

but every time i walk through campus, i step through the haze of my past life. and in its embrace, this place seems not so bad anymore. the walkways are blanketed in foggy traces of the footprints we left months ago. the glass reflects your smile to me, the concrete echoes your stories.

there's a table we sat at one morning before class, where you gifted me a loaf of bread you baked. there's a lamppost we leaned against one afternoon in november, where i took a picture of the sun streaked against your blinded face. there's a bench we frequented every time we grabbed coffee, where we'd sit and exist and be okay with living, as long as we knew we had each other.

i passed that bench on my route today. one of the wooden slats was dislodged. it broke my heart. i stopped walking. i found the screw on the ground. i put it back together with my hands. now i'm sitting here and writing this.

it's almost midnight now. september is creeping up on me, ever so cautiously. the haze is lifting. the glass is dulling. the concrete is barren. our footprints diverge.