The Walk

I remember the girl I used to walk to and from school with in seventh grade. Her braids bounced like metronomes, keeping time for our steps down Maple Street. We weren't friends, not the kind who traded stickers or whispered in class. We didn't share lunches or secrets. But every morning, she was there at the corner of Oak and Third, waiting with her eyes downcast, and every afternoon, she was there again.

We didn't say much. Sometimes a "hi." Once, she asked if I thought it would rain. Sometimes nothing at all. But she slowed her pace to match mine, or maybe I sped mine to match hers. Our shoes scuffed the pavement in a kind of duet, not rehearsed, not spoken of. Just something that happened.

When cars passed, we both shifted a little closer to the sidewalk, like dancers taking a cue. If a dog barked from behind a fence, we both glanced over, then away, at the same moment. There was a quiet choreography to it all, as if the simple act of walking was enough to bind us.

Other kids ran ahead, laughing, or lagged behind, teasing each other. We were steady. Predictable. A rhythm of two.

On the last day of seventh grade, we walked home in silence. The air felt heavy with the kind of endings kids don't have words for. At her corner, she stopped. She pressed her lips together, then said, "Well… bye, I guess."

I said "bye," too. She gave a small wave, just one quick motion, and then walked off. I never saw her again. Her family moved that summer.

Years passed. I tried to look her up once, when social media made it easy to find old names. But she wasn't there. No photos, no updates, no wedding announcements, no job changes. It was as if she had never existed at all, except in my memory of matched footsteps and synchronized glances.

Sometimes, walking home late at night, I still feel her presence. A rhythm alongside mine, matching me step for step, as if the years had folded over and the sidewalk was still carrying us both.

I never turn my head. I just keep walking.

And when the streetlights flicker, I imagine her braids swinging in time.