There was no confrontation, only bitterness, cold, and thoughts.

He paced back and forth, thinking and brooding on the truth of her loss of love for him. This was clear from the silence of his phone, and in his false hope of her turning the corner and stopping in front of him, waiting to take him back into the warmth of her arms, through the mirage of the vehicle. Yet, she did not come, nor did she write. 

“Well,” he said, “she doesn’t love you and she’s moved on. Time to move on yourself, and see the horizon. No more of this ‘I feel bad’ crap. Focus and continue forward.” Speaking out loud always helped him realize truths faster, and with more clarity; this was no exception; yet the desired outcome did not come as soon.

As he realized this, the bus appeared in the distance and was only about three minutes behind schedule. 

As he entered the bus, he asked the driver, “what’s your last stop?” “Last stop is Valentine Avenue.”

“That’s good,” he said, thinking only of the distance from his home, and not reading between the lines; as he paid, walked in, and sat at the first single seat to his left. Passing through Castle Hill, leaving Story to arrive at Valentine Avenue, he didn’t notice the arrow that was stuck to his backside; cursing him to continue his search, blissfully ignorant of what he truly sought in a partner, prolonging his isolation from the embrace of love.

As he looked out the window, he took out his notebook and wrote…this story.