Night Walk Along the River

A fictional longform essay set in Austin, Texas

I didn’t plan on ending up near the river that night.

Austin wasn’t the kind of place I expected to stay in this long. I thought I’d pass through — two months, maybe three — and then leave when the heat wrapped around me like a stubborn hand refusing to let go. But time works differently here.

That night started on a porch in Hyde Park, where cicadas hummed loud enough to drown the thoughts in your head. Three of us sat on mismatched chairs drinking cold Topo Chico, talking about plans we pretended to have. Someone mentioned the moon was full. Someone else said, “We should go see it over Lady Bird Lake.”

We walked, cutting through streets where bungalows sat shoulder to shoulder like old friends leaning in to whisper secrets. Oak trees hung low, branches swaying overhead like they were tired from holding up decades of memories.

When we reached South Congress, neon lights glowed against the pavement like someone spilled color across the street. Guitars floated out of a doorway from a band halfway through a cover of “Dreams.” A woman in boots danced by herself, and a man wearing a suit jacket over gym shorts shouted poetry at passing strangers.

But it was the river that kept me here.

When we reached the Congress Avenue Bridge, we walked down closer to the water. Thousands of bats live under that bridge, and if you stand there long enough, you swear the air itself might move differently because of them. The moon hung full and heavy, its reflection stretching across the lake like a silver path.

I remember someone whispered, “What if we stayed here forever?” No one answered.

Forever is a story you hope, not a promise you keep.

Austin is built by people who believe in possibility — musicians who never stopped playing, chefs who experiment with flavors until it works, and writers who keep filling notebooks, even when no one is watching.

These stories — big and small — deserve a place. And here, they will be told.