Wonderwall

Six

Entry for WattpadShortStory's Reading List Marathon contest: write a 400-word romantic duodrabble with a borrowed title from the Spine Tinglers reading list.

Won 2nd place & now featured in WattpadShortStory's entry anthology, Gemstones!

—

ONLY TIME CAN heal a broken heart: isn't that how the saying goes? I've heard every iteration of that godforsaken phrase—by now, those deceivingly hopeful words are surely branded into my brain. But if only time can heal a broken heart, how come after all these years, my heart still aches at the sight of his face?

        Five times I've carelessly surrendered my heart to him, and five times he's shattered and abandoned it.

        On December 18th, 1995, my eyes descend upon that familiar head of glossy brown curls emerging through the doorway of the diner. From where I stand, scrubbing the silverware, my lungs seemingly surge out of my chest. When I've managed to somewhat recollect myself, I composedly hand him a menu and ask with an obligatory smile, "Hi! How can I help you?"

        Behind those blue-rimmed glasses, he blinks dazedly as if he's shocked by my presence, and at that moment, the memories wash over me like a calamitous hurricane: the hour-long calls, the waltzing in the rain, the midnight strolls, the hand holding. God, I swear I can still feel every crevasse of his hands etched into my palm—the warmth, the texture, the brevity.

        But nostalgia, I've learned, is a dirty liar, and those enchanting memories come with consequences. The hurricane drowns me in our relationship's merciless reality: the arguing, the jealously, the violence. His coconut-vanilla scent, once so addictive, now repulses me. The constellation of freckles I once vied to count seems out of place. His grin, crooked teeth and all, so foreign. At one point in time, we held each other so close, it was as if we were trying to defy the laws of physics and occupy the same space. Yet today, I'd kill to be as far away from this wretched diner where he stands, silently mocking me.

        Nevertheless, in all my confusion and uncertainty, I want to collapse into his arms and just listen to his heartbeat. But the rules of social decorum I must abide by forbid me.

        "How are you?" I hurriedly choke out before my opportunity at conversation ends.

        With an apologetic frown and a cocked eyebrow, he murmurs, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

        Ignorance. How could I believe he still cared or even remembered us? And as I emotionlessly laugh and shake my head at my own foolishness, only one word comes to mind.

        Six.