Heartbreak Healing

Isla had last believed in forever in August.

A tepid, undramatic rain that sloshed on relentlessly without lightning and thunder blurred her linen blouse and drenched her spine. She was standing on a downtown sidewalk across Jonah's apartment, a mascara streak running down her cheeks and a crumpled note grasped in her hands while Jonah closed the door. No shouting. No accusations. It was just the tranquil ending of a love that she had dreamed was her final one.

It was already three weeks and two days from that afternoon. That block of town was out of bounds to Isla these days. So that she could avoid that part of town, she chose a slightly longer route to work instead of walking through Oakwood Park. The streets haunted her, although she walked a long way. Her mental status was delicate and sensational. When making coffee, folding, or just brushing her teeth, she may suddenly remember his laughter or soothing her hair when anxious.

The best friend of Kayla had made her best: movie nights, takeout, midnight walks. Though Kayla tried to soothe her, Isla still felt that the strands which held together her inner wounds were far too weak to bear much. The nights were the hardest. She would spend many, many late-night hours scrolling through her phone, just looking for some distraction, however pathetic, to help her take some of the pain away.

Late at night, at about 1:23 a.m., she posted her message onto an online forum she'd visited hundreds of times before, where people wrote freely about their joys, fears and hopes. Her post was simple:

"Still healing from a breakup. Still terrified I never again feel that kind of trust in love again. But I want to. Could you tell the greatest love stories you've heard? More than the romance of falling in love – but the ones that persisted. Those who were able to withstand the time test. I need to know what it requires. I want to believe again."

She almost deleted it. Then she hit "Post."

By morning, she had found too many emails.

—

A beginning story that I didn't know a woman named Sylvia was telling.

When I was 62, I met the man who would later turn into my partner in life. We both had partners before—both had suffered through loss. We both had been married before—both had lost people. We got introduced to clay in a class for beginners. Crafting anything that looked like a mug was hopeless to him. It was him who eventually spilt joy out of my life again.

He took a lop-sided, not too-sturdy clay heart and begged me to marry him. He told me it resembled me. It's not perfect, but it's still beautiful. Our willpower has kept us together for 14 years. He brings me some coffee each morning using one of his ugly mugs.

Isla smiled. Later that night, soft hands and the fragrance of coffee wafted into her sleep.

—

A second letter came sometime soon after from a man whose name was Rafi.

At college, in a philosophy class, I met my partner. We dated for two years. Then he headed for med school and left the distance that separated us. We didn't speak to each other for three years. I dated other people. So did he.

Some day, a real letter landed in my mailbox. He told me he could not forget me whenever he gazed at the stars above the ocean. He was moving back.

We have stayed together for 11 years since, with two dogs, a cluttered house and an herb garden that we never bother to maintain, and a garden that both of us never bother to keep. But it's love. Always has been."

Isla read the letter twice. She didn't believe in destiny. But she did feel that there could yet be chances.

—

She put the stories back into one called "Reasons."

There was Margo, who became a neighbour 40 years ago and eventually married him. And then there was Tommy, his wife's supporter during two bouts with cancer. Chia and Lyle adopted new habits of dancing side by side at every wedding they attended—for Chia, of course, but with Lyle using a walker even though it was then.

Some stories didn't end ideally. The wife left a year after joining a union; this story was part of Ruth's account. But Ruth said, "I'd go through it all again just for another day".

—

Kayla noticed the change first.

"You're humming as you cut the apple, the way you used to; I can tell," she said one morning. "Like...while slicing an apple. You haven't done that since the beginning of February".

Isla blinked. "I didn't notice."

"You're healing," Kayla said, putting it a bit softer.

Isla didn't say anything. When she returned home that evening, she returned to the first post she had ever made. Then she wrote another one.

Thank each of you who told me your stories: thank you. You gave me hope again that love is still possible. According to what you demonstrated to me, people could be good and forgiving. In time. In healing.

I'm not planning to dive into anything right now.<< But my question is whether I won't keep driving people away sooner rather than later. I wish to open the door to a small amount of warmth. I want to honour your love and possibly find my own one day.

The next day, someone the name of Jules reacted by sending a message:<<

"Love doesn't vanish. Now and then, love takes on a different look to allow us to see it again.

Isla liked that. She wrote it on a sticky note and pasted it on her refrigerator.

—

A few years later, Isla took up a pottery class.

She wasn't looking for love. But when, as the instructor—tall and with warm, gentle eyes, and given the nickname "Wren"—jokingly commented, "Well, that's uniquely off-center," on Isla's wobbly vase, Isla laughed along with her.

Then, I started the journey towards change. Not with a grand gesture. Not with certainty.

But with a story that hadn't ended its chapters.

And a heart that opens a small bit, just a little bit, for the first whispers of hope.