The Overpass, the Aviation Obstruction Light, and GQuuuuuuX

I watched GQuuuuuuX, and it reminded me of my first love.

He was the one who pursued me. I was extremely socially anxious — I had no idea what expression to make or what message to send back in that situation. Before speaking up, I’d involuntarily simulate the other person’s possible responses and emotions, analyze the probabilities of each, then pick the safest path — a product of excessive empathy and social sensitivity, needing to predict how others would react before deciding my own response. It consumed too much energy, so I’d rather say less. He said, let’s go out. I said okay. I took him to the overpass I always went to.

That overpass was my secret base in junior high. Not really a secret — it was right next to the school, anyone could see it — but no one else ever stood up there spacing out except me. After school I’d go up and stand for a while, watching the traffic below, the traffic lights changing over and over, thinking about nothing. Occasionally I’d look up and see the aviation obstruction light on the roof of the tall building next to the bridge — red, blinking, blinking. You couldn’t see it during the day; it only came on after dusk. Like someone far away trying to talk to you — but not saying much.

When he got onto the bridge he was a little surprised. He said he didn’t expect me to hang out in a place like this. I said yeah, it’s just me. Then he also leaned against the railing and looked down.

After a while he said his heart rate seemed faster — not the kind of dramatic spike from running, but a very slow, almost imperceptible acceleration. I felt it too. I also felt my body temperature rise — my face was hot, my mouth a little dry. He said he was thirsty. I said I was thirsty too. So we went down the bridge to buy water. The convenience store wasn’t far from the bridge. Iced Nongfu Spring water, one bottle each. We stood at the store entrance and finished them before going back.

No hand-holding. No confession. Just a walk, a bridge, two bottles of water.

Later I wondered — why was my reaction a rise in body temperature rather than something else? Probably because I’m a highly sensitive person (HSP). The defining trait of HSP is an unusually low threshold for perceiving external stimuli. The traffic on the bridge, the shifting evening light, the blinking rhythm of the aviation obstruction light, another person standing right there — individually none of these are anything special, but when they all stack up, my body amplifies every signal at once. Heart rate going faster is a real acceleration; body temperature rising is a real increase. It’s not literary embellishment.

But this also explains why the overpass matters so much to me. It’s a boundary. There’s a height difference between the bridge deck and the ground below, and that gap places my perception at exactly the right vantage — high enough to observe the world, but not so close that it swallows me. The sound of traffic on the bridge is muffled by distance into a kind of comfortable ambient noise. Watching the traffic flow, I’d unconsciously personify it — as if the city were breathing. And I stand in the middle, looking down, like an observer looking down from above.

I like this feeling of “seeing from a distance.” Not participating, but able to see. HSPs easily overload in social situations — too many people, too many sounds, too many emotional signals flooding in at once, impossible to process. But standing on the bridge looking down is relatively safe. The world is below you. You can see its grandeur and its flow, but you don’t have to get pulled in. You can detach. You can just “watch.” That sense of detachment, for an HSP, is pretty much the only peace — a quiet space to chew on emotions without having to rush a response.

So I was the one who invited him there. Not because it was romantic — though in retrospect it actually was, sort of — but because it was the only place where I felt safe. The overpass felt like a barrier suspended in mid-air; the traffic below and the breathing lights on the rooftops were all controllable flows, stable, orderly, non-intrusive objects that put me at ease. I shared my most private space — my solitary sanatorium — with him.

The way Natsume in GQuuuuuuX stands in the middle of the world with guns detonating behind her and doesn’t even turn her head — I think I understand that. Not that she’s an HSP too, but that state of “I’m here, and the world can churn and do whatever, I’m just standing in the middle.” Me on the overpass was the same way. The world below could be turning upside down, and I’d just be on the bridge watching.

Of course, my little scene was nothing compared to Natsume’s. But the mindset is the same model.