Cars passed me and I reached my arms out, letting their lights flash over my body, illuminating me in the pitch-black night, as though they could provide the warmth my arms had been missing for so long.

I tried to imagine that each pass of light had a physical effect on my limbs, like I was experiencing a life renewal on that bridge, washing me of my grief.

But when the lights stopped for a moment and all that enveloped me was silence, everything as it was before, the pain of the memories sliced through me again.

I closed my eyes, curled my fingers into fists, and pulled my arms to my center, holding myself the way he once had.

Someone brushed past me and muttered an accented, “Sorry.” I was jolted from the absolute silence of that brief pause in my existence and looked out over the dark abyss in my view.

Westminster Bridge, London, was a magical place—for me, at least. From the side where I stood, legs braced against the railing, it was as if I was on the edge of the world I’d known; a world full of heartache and love and angst, and I was facing the beginning of something new.

Someone else brushed me from behind and I grabbed the straps of my backpack more firmly, reminded that the new world I had found myself in was still occupied by the same people of old, people willing to dip their hands into bags that didn’t belong to them and help themselves to the contents anyway.

Below me, the dark vastness of the River Thames glided past, under the bridge, and out the other side. There were murmurs of the other people walking on the bridge, people who walked it without the intention of stopping and inhaling the atmosphere like I did. I reminded myself that while the world continued moving, I was still here—hands gripped like vices on the railing, forcing myself to stand completely still. In ten, twenty years, I wanted to remember what it felt like to stand by the side of a bridge three months after losing the man I’d loved. A bridge we’d planned to visit together, one of many plans that were now forced to be buried in the darker parts of my mind.

But I’d walked the bridge for him, for Colin. I could think of him without crying now, which was a triumph in and of itself. My chest still ached for the piece he’d unknowingly carved from me, and the regret that lived in its recesses was a near-constant reminder.

I pulled up my phone and checked the time. It was seconds from the new hour, which meant Big Ben would chime soon. I smiled at the background photo: Colin and I hanging off the edge of a cliff, safely roped. I remembered that trip—I remembered all our trips. I pressed my finger against his chest in the photo, and vowed to continue my own pursuit of happiness, despite the grief I carried.

I could hear my brother’s voice now. “Mila, you obeyed his final wishes. Don’t regret giving him the last thing he asked of you.”

Big Ben punctuated the silence with his first chime and I let out a sigh and chewed on my lips. What my brother said gave me little comfort. I’d never forget that I didn’t get the goodbye I wanted.

The bell chimed again and two men laughed, capturing my attention away from the water. I looked up at them, the men in dark hooded jackets, hands tucked into the pockets of running shorts as they approached. One had dark blond curls that battled against the light breeze brushing past us on the bridge. He looked like he belonged on the beaches of California, surfboard in one hand and sunscreen in the other. He had a handsome face, strong features and wide lips.

I turned my attention to his companion, a man who was attractive too—but in a different kind of way. In a way that made me unable to turn away.

His mouth was more serious than the blond man’s, and his hair was dark, thick—short on the sides and longer up top. His jaw was clean-shaven, revealing his strong jaw line and full lips. His eyes were cast down, so all I saw was a set of thick lashes as he listened to the blond man talk.

They couldn’t have been much older than I was, somewhere in their mid-twenties, but something about the darker haired man caught my attention so much that I didn’t realize just how long I was staring at him until his head lifted and his gaze collided with mine. His mouth went slack and a wrinkle formed between his eyes as he took me in.

I should’ve looked away that second, but there was something about his face. The way his eyes held mine in equal measure, the way he fumbled in his steps, just barely, not enough to attract the attention of the man who walked beside him, but enough that I noticed—it pulled me in. As he moved closer, quiet enveloped me, as if the sound of traffic had been sucked up by a vacuum.

His eyes sharpened. I’d expected brown irises, but his were a light blue-green—maybe hazel. Their lightness contrasted against the dark eyelashes that framed them. He was even more attractive like this, his gaze fixed. It was as if helium had filled my belly, with how light it felt, and my hands tightened on the railing.

He and his companion paused mid-step, ten feet from me, and I didn’t know what to do. Should I have averted my eyes and pretended I wasn’t staring, or keep staring until he broke contact?

But I didn’t get a chance to choose between the two choices, because a sound to my left jarred me, just before someone bumped painfully hard into me. The noise was back again, with a bang in my ears.

Against me, two people struggled with something—a purse or wallet, maybe. “Let go!” the woman yelled as she yanked on the strap. Each time she pulled, the man leaned back harder across my body, pinning me to the railing. He smelled sour, like he’d rolled around in fish. I winced as the scent assaulted my nostrils, and held onto the railing. The back of the railing pressed hard against my spine, leaving me biting down on my lip, leaving me without enough air to yell.

Everyone within a half dozen feet of us paused, taking in the commotion. And then of those people, half of them continued on their walk, clearly desensitized to muggings.

When no one moved to help the poor, elderly woman, I tried to yell at the mugger, but I couldn’t fill my lungs to do more than squeak.

The two men I’d seen stepped in, and the struggle intensified.

The mugger tugged again as others’ hands closed over his shoulders, pressing me so violently hard against the railing that the wind was knocked out of me. I chanced a glance over my shoulder at the water below, knowing I was a breath from tumbling over the side of the bridge.

The final tug was strong enough to loosen the woman’s hands. Any second and he’d have the purse completely in his hands. So, I did something stupid: I pushed his shoulder, jolting him enough that he stumbled back again, and leaned far enough that I flipped right over the rail of the bridge.

I wasn’t sure if I screamed. I wasn’t sure if I shouted for help. I wasn’t sure of anything except grasping desperately for that railing as I backflipped over it, as if my life depended on grabbing it—which it probably did.

My chest slammed against the other side of the railing, but my hands held firmly above me. It was enough to send panic like a lightning bolt through my body. My legs felt tingly then, and I waited to lose my grip and slide right into the murky water that awaited me below. Gravity weighted down my body and I felt my sweaty hands slip.

Just then, a hand closed over my wrist, and tugged it up.

I looked up at the dark-haired man I’d made eye contact with a minute before and my lips trembled open. “Don’t let go,” I begged.

“I won’t. I promise.” His other hand closed over my wrist and he pulled, maneuvering me up a few inches.

“I’m going to fall,” I gasped, looking over my shoulder. The water, which had felt like a dozen feet below me when I was on top of the bridge, suddenly looked like a hundred feet away now that I dangled above it.

“You’re not going to fall.” He gritted his teeth, his face determined. “I need you to swing your leg up and hook your foot in this molding.” He nodded at the decorative molding holding up the railing.

“I can’t. My legs aren’t working.” Panic was setting in. My legs were going numb from it. With a calmness I didn’t completely feel, I whispered, “Just let me fall.”

“What? Are you mad?” He shook his head, and a crease took up residence between his eyebrows. “I’m not letting you go,” he bit out in his thick English accent.

“It’ll be okay. It’s not too far. I can swim.”

“You are mad. You’ll drown before you make it to the side.”

“I can swim.”

“You just said your legs aren’t working. And a frail thing like you won’t be able to paddle your way to land.” He shook his head. “Why am I even arguing with you? Sam, help me.”

The blond man—Sam—appeared beside him, and he reached down, wrapping around my other arm. “On three,” Sam said, looking at his friend.

The three seconds they counted felt like a lifetime, but sure enough with their combined strength, they towed me up. The man with dark hair hooked an arm under my legs to haul me over the railing, but my legs collapsed as soon as my feet hit the ground.

He swore under his breath and tugged me up until he could wrap his arms around my back. With my legs loose like Jell-O, I clung to him, trembling, as he supported most of my body weight.

My face pressed against his chest, and I squeezed my lids tight, halting the tears that beckoned. It was all so overwhelming, the fear and shock and now, the safety of his hold. As I regained my bearings, I took in his scent—like apple and basil, but warm too. Perhaps the warmth was from the feel of being in his arms. But it was comforting, the first time I’d found comfort since crossing the Atlantic.

His hands, though they held me, seemed reluctant to do so. And just when I felt them start to ease up, my legs started to feel more solid and I pulled away.

Had I really just embraced a complete stranger? I backed up a step, stumbling a little like a deer finding its legs for the first time. I looked up into his face, and he stared at me. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look entirely welcoming, either.

“Are you alright?”

I blinked at the question, which had come from Sam. Not the unhappy life raft of a man I’d held on to. I turned to look at him and swallowed before speaking. “I am. T-th-thank you.” I let out a breath and pushed my hand through my hair, laughing a little at myself. “I almost went swimming.”

“I think swimming is being too generous.”

Sam and I turned to the dark-haired man who’d spoken. He looked between us and shrugged. “You’re wearing a backpack, boots, and heavy clothing. You’d have sunk.” Immediately after saying it, he looked away.

“Ah, true. Next time you want to go swimming, wear something more appropriate.” Sam winked at me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Sure you’re alright?”

I nodded, eyes dancing over to the other man before I looked at Sam again. “Thank you. Sam, right?”

He smiled, that movie-star smile he’d been wearing when I’d first seen him. “Yes. And this is Ames.” He nudged his friend harder than necessary, which caused Ames to glare at him. “That was pretty shit luck, to be pushed over by that pickpocket.”

I couldn’t stop playing with my hair, thanks to my boundless nerves, the double shock of almost dying to now standing in their presence. With Ames doing his best to avoid looking directly at me and Sam smiling like I’d given him some kind of happiness.

“Well, you might’ve saved my life. Can I—”

“Then why’d you tell me to let you go?”

Ames’ harsh words stopped me. He looked me up and down before settling on my face.

“Because I thought I’d fall.”

“I said I wouldn’t let go.” He said it defensively, like he was angry I doubted him.

Sam pushed on Ames’ shoulder, causing his expression to relax. “I think you need a beer, my friend.” Sam looked at me. “And you do, too. Unless you’re more of a wine drinker? And what do people call you, besides ‘you’?”

Laughing, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. “People call me Mila. And I think, right now, you could put anything alcoholic in front of me and I’d drink it.”

“Then it’s settled, Mila. Let’s get a drink and celebrate you not sinking to the bottom of the River Thames.”

Ames glared at Sam. “Really, Sam?”

“Lighten up, mate.” Sam slapped him on his upper back and winked at me. “I’ll buy.”

“Funny joke.” Ames gave him a look that Sam ignored.

“I don’t get the joke?” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud; I’d meant to ask Sam, but my eyes were on Ames when I asked.

“Because,” Sam began, pointing the direction we were to walk to grab a taxi, “Ames runs the pub we’re going to.”

There was a moment, slight as it was, where I questioned climbing into a taxi with two strangers in a foreign city. But the doubt dissipated as quick as a breath when Sam all but shoved Ames into the taxi, and held the door open for me to climb in after him.

Still, I texted my brother the address Sam gave to the taxi driver. Just in case.