Page 12 of Broken Hearts

I sigh. She might not seem like it now, but she was once a hard-core romantic. Picking up the shoebox, my fingers brush over its familiar surface as memories flood my mind, pulling me back to when I discovered her secret shoebox for the first time.

“What is all that?” I asked her one day when I sneaked through her window uninvited.

She’d jumped, her face beet-red. I love when she blushes; it makes her green eyes even greener, and I know how it spreads all over her body.

“N-nothing. Aren’t you supposed to be at that soccer party with my dad?”

I faked a cough. “I couldn’t go, I’m sick.”

She laughed and tried to close the box, but I was too fast. “What do we have in here, huh?”

“No, I—”

Silencing her with a kiss, she looked at me, stunned, as if every time I kissed her was a marvel. I was not sure why she was reacting like that. It seems like she thought she and I together were an anomaly.

“Cole…” she whined when I opened the box and threw herself on her bed, her head buried in her pillow.

“So… Oh, the pill!” I looked at the prescription date. Two weeks ago.

She said something muffled in her pillow, and I chuckled despite the excitement filling me. My girl was planning the next step for us, and I loved it.

“Condoms… okay.” I’d never had sex without a condom before, but with her, I wanted to. I wanted to feel everything. I kept on looking in the box and found the receipt she kept from our date in that small diner outside of town, the movie tickets for the afternoon showing, again out of town, and it saddened and frustrated me all at once. I’d put the box away and ran my hand up her leg, under her skirt, and stopped as I reached the curve of her ass.

“We don’t have to keep it a secret, Angel.”

She’d turned her face from her pillow, looking at me pensively.

Gently squeezing her soft, plush flesh, the words came out with sincerity, “I mean it. I’m proud of being your man.”

She was silent for a few more seconds. “I love you, Cole.”

Those words were unexpected, but fuck, how they made me feel. I’d looked down at my chest, almost believing there was a hole there, as my heart jumped out of it.

Hearing “I love you” wasn’t new, but often, it was said out of habit, a confusion between lust and love, or just what they thought I wanted to hear. But not her, not my angel. She said it with a kind of dread, as if loving me was her greatest fear.

A smile broke across my face, feeling like a superhero. “You love me? Why are you saying it like you’re doomed?”

She blinked back tears. “Because I am. I love you despite my best efforts, and I know you’re going to hurt me and break my heart. It’s logical, and it’s for stories like ours that Tchaikovsky wrote the second movement of his violin concerto.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I knew I hated how sad she looked when our story was just‌ starting. “No, he didn’t, and you know why?”

“No, why?” she asked with a feeble voice.

“Because I love you too, Evangeline Sinclair.” And it was the night she and I made love for the first time. The night I took her innocence, and she branded herself into my flesh. The night when she became mine, and I, too, became so ardently hers. Even when she betrayed me, I was hers, and even now that she doesn’t want me, I am still hers.

Brushing my hand over the smooth surface of the box, I’m jolted back to the present as the burden of the memory feels like a suffocating weight on my chest. I didn’t realize before how much I missed that time.

Opening the box, I’m not surprised to find completely different contents. There’s a hospital bracelet with her name, but the other element has faded. There were droplets on it, or maybe tears? I frown, not really liking that this is in her memory box. The next thing is a handkerchief. The initials MR are on it. Who even carries these anymore? It has a stain on it despite having been washed. I trace the pattern and the light-pinkish color that I know is blood. I have had blood too many times on my shirt not to recognize it. I find a photo booth strip, too, one taken at the big mall a town over. I remember those days vividly. Before, I was right beside her in these photos, our smiles matching in carefree joy. Now, there’s a glaring hole where my face used to be, a physical manifestation of the void between us. Fishing out the keys from my pocket, I fiddle with the Arsenal keychain. With a press on the underside, a thin slate pops out. As I pull it, I’m greeted by Eva’s smiling face, her joy infectious even in print. It’s a photo from the same set, a memory of a time when we were inseparable, when our smiles were genuine, and our love was simple.

At the bottom of the shoebox, there is a piece of paper folded in half. My name at the top sends a shiver down my spine. Pulling it out, the paper feels like a relic of a past life, one that’s been haunting me more than I care to admit.

Unfolding the paper, my heart hammers against my chest. It’s my math test; it’s the math test. The one that sparked the chain of events leading to the worst decision of my life. The memories flood back—the arguments, the accusations, Jenny’s manipulative words. She had painted Eva as a traitor, someone who mocked my deepest insecurities.

As I stare at the test, something doesn’t add up. The corrections in the margin, the meticulous handwriting—it’s unmistakably Eva’s. She had stepped into the battlefield for me, in her own way, fought a silent war on my behalf. She must have switched our tests, allowing me to pass.

A wave of confusion washes over me. Was Jenny lying? Had I been so blinded by my own pride and jealousy that I twisted the truth? The thought makes me pause, a cold unease settling in my stomach.

I’d asked Eva to cheat for me on this test. Her refusal had pissed me off, feeding into Jenny’s narrative. We fought, words flying like knives. I was convinced she was disloyal, that she was using me. My fingers tremble as they trace the corrections on the paper. This isn’t a test; it’s a revelation. A testament to Eva’s loyalty, to her unwavering support, even when it went against her principles.

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