He picked up a flat, smooth stone and skipped it as far across the cold, clear lake as he could. His thoughts rippled with the effect of his throw. It was a brief distraction from his heartbreak; a well needed one.
It had been three weeks since their chemistry faded. He did not write to her. He did not because she expected that he would. No, he did not write to her, though a message was scribed on his heart, and it spelled out, in cursive, something like this:
“I did not listen when I was told to hold onto my heart. Instead, I emptied myself out for you as l had read in every book that made me smile. I must have done it all wrong, or perhaps the books were merely fairy tales after all.
“To me, you were the thrice-greatest. I gave you love you claimed you never had. Love I did not know I could feel. Love which you said was like gold in your hands. But like a confused alchemist, you turned that gold into lead.
“You grew cold to my care and told me I was not clever. I gave you confidence and watched you walk away with it. My attention was just the first taste of something you had never consumed undiluted. and we both found out too late that attention was the elixir you sought after all.
“I was only the beginning of your therapy, and an ear to hear your philosophies. I was a shoulder to cry on, no more, no less. I was only a steppingstone, as smooth as the ones I have been skipping, to your own kind of prosperity. I do hope that you find it one day.
“I accept the love; I accept the loss.
“I don’t regret it, but it does hurt.”
R.P.D. Sanders