The empty Bleachers and the unfinished Goodbye

"I was standing near the edge of my old elementary school playground trying to fold a giant paper roadmap, but my third-grade teacher kept asking me to hand out library cards to people I hadn't seen in over fifteen years. My childhood best friend from down the street was sitting on the damp wooden bleachers, wearing the exact same striped hoodie he wore every day in fifth grade, looking down at his shoes. I walked over to say hi, but I couldn't remember why we stopped talking in the first place, and this heavy, aching knot formed in my stomach. Before I could sit down next to him, my old middle school track coach showed up beside us and handed me a mug of hot soup, completely unbothered by the rain that was suddenly soaking all of us. I looked back at my friend to offer him some, but he was gone, and the bleachers were just empty wood surrounded by tall, quiet trees, leaving me with this quiet, lingering grief that wouldn't go away."