The Paperback Heart

Sarah sat on the bench, tears in her eyes as the stream of people filed past her like ghosts: the bankers in pristine suits, suitcases in hand, the tourists craning their necks at the skyscrapers reaching up high above them, heeding no attention to her moment of crisis.

She looked up at the statues in front of her, the muscular shape of a bull in sleek, carved bronze, its head down, poised to charge, but frozen in time. The curved horns and fierce eyes reared towards the fearless girl who stood with hands on hips, defiance glowing from her carved expression.

Sarah reached into her bag for a tissue to dry her eyes. As she fumbled around her bag, she felt the soft shape of a paperback book. Slowly, she pulled it out and placed it on her lap with care, as if it was a fragile object in a museum, a priceless relic of bygone times. The book was slightly squashed out of shape, a wonky parallelogram of pages. It was only a cheesy romance novel, but it had been a precious gift that had given her comfort. She turned the cover and studied the handwritten note inside, her face turning numb as a tear rolled down her cheek and onto the scrawl of blue ink:

“To my darling Sarah, may this book bring you joy, as you have brought joy into my heart.

Forever yours, John.”

“Forever.” She thought. What did forever mean anyway?

It had been only a few days since it had happened. He’d left in the middle of the night. She woke up to find his stuff gone, and a text on her phone.

“I’m sorry. I’m flying back to Canada. I can’t be with you any more.”

She still couldn’t comprehend it. Only last week he was talking about marriage, yet here she was, sat on a bench all alone. Her mind swirled, trying to process why he could possibly have done this.

It's in these moments, she thought, when people have a choice: whether they run or they stay and fight, where you truly find out what they've been like all along. The veil comes back, the facade retreats, and their entire being is laid bare before your very eyes. In these moments you start to wonder, has it been there all along? Have I been blind? Have I been a fool? Did I miss the signs, were they in front of me, imperceptible particles like dust in the wind?

He’d promised her the world, but had left her heartbroken. Here she was, sat in the middle of the city, surrounded by millions of people, but she had never felt so alone. She felt isolated and invisible, a shadow in a dark room. Her mood turned sour. Not I, but you, she thought. You let the dust gather on our love, untouched, unmoved. A forgotten book on the shelf.

She studied the book in her hands, thumbing through the pages. It had been a favourite comfort read of hers, a fairytale she enjoyed living in her mind, the kind she thought she’d had, until now. She thought about the main character: a hopeless romantic who loved writing poetry on the balcony of an Italian villa with a cigarette between her fingers and a cup of coffee on the table. Her beau had doted on her and she had spurned him for a while - he had his flaws of course, but his persistence paid off until eventually they fell in love and lived happily for the rest of their lives.

Sarah sat silently, the book ajar as she looked up in thought. What was love? She thought it should be like her book. Not always easy, but a story of overcoming adversity to reach joy. She knew she had been in love, but now felt only pain. She imagined her heart to be the book in her hands: creased at the corners, squashed, stained with coffee and bathwater, a page slightly torn, but lovingly taped back together. As a book must be read to come alive, a heart must love and be loved. It cannot sit unused on the shelf, unfulfilled. It must be opened up and explored, the deep details examined and absorbed. A pristine book is hollow, as one’s heart who does not love, for it is denied its purpose.

After all, the sign of love comes not from a heart which has ne’er felt ache nor pain or break, but one that is like a well-thumbed book. Sarah knew now the pain she felt was a sign that she had loved, but that it was time for a new chapter in her life.

She closed the book shut and placed it on the bench beside her, giving it a gentle tap as if to say goodbye. Taking a deep breath, she stood up and strode away, merging into the bubbling crowd.