The Boy Who Had No Heart
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. It had been seventeen days. Not that he was counting. But it had been seventeen days.
He had kept himself busy the first two weeks—between work, school, those odd jobs and his friends, he kept himself busy enough to keep thoughts of her at bay. When that second week ended, though, and the long holiday weekend loomed ahead, she crept her way back in.
He tossed and turned Friday night, haunted by unpleasant dreams that he couldn’t recollect. The neon red numbers glowed 3:34 on the alarm clock, and he threw himself to the other side of the bed. As his face hit the pillow, he caught her scent, the faint smell of her perfume.
His stomach twisted, and he searched the pillow for its source, for any other trace. But it was gone.
Just like her.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the dark ceiling. A fan whirred in the background, drowning out the occasional creaks and groans of the old house.
She was gone. She was here, and then she was gone, and it was his fault. He had been stupid, so stupid. He had let her go—worse, he had pushed her away. He had known, he had known she wasn’t happy. She had told him what she wanted, she had told him over and over. He just didn’t listen. He didn’t hear her. Or maybe he didn’t understand it. He didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that she was gone.
He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow and held his breath for as long as he could. When he finally surfaced, he sat up and pulled his laptop from off his desk.
His fingers touched the keyboard and danced.
This is the story of a boy, a boy who had no heart…