The Curator of Broken Hearts

They say heartbreak is a universal language, a lexicon of longing, loss, and lament. 

A well-worn trope, yes, but it's a narrative we're conditioned to accept. 

Like a comforting blanket, wrapped tightly around the shoulders of the bereaved, it promises warmth and solace. But what if that blanket is actually a straitjacket, restricting movement, stifling growth?

Let's talk about freedom. 

Not the rebellious, rock-and-roll kind, but the quiet, liberating sort. 

The freedom to fill your days as you please, without negotiation or compromise. The luxury of solitude, a commodity often undervalued in the pursuit of companionship. And let's not forget the financial aspect. No more splitting bills, no more compromising on desires. It's a small rebellion, perhaps, but it's a rebellion nonetheless.

Heartbreak, it seems, is not merely an ending, but a beginning. 

A chance to rediscover oneself, unburdened by the weight of another's expectations.

I know what you're thinking: heartless. But hear me out. 

This isn't a celebration of solitude or a condemnation of love. It's simply an acknowledgment of the unexpected. 

Five years of my life were entwined with another, a half-decade of shared laughter, tears, and dreams. And yet, here I am, finding a strange sort of solace in the wreckage.

The irony is almost cruel. My ex accused me of being too positive, of refusing to acknowledge his pain. As if a perpetual sunny disposition were a character flaw. The truth is, I've always believed in the power of perspective. It's a survival skill, a way to navigate life's inevitable storms. But in the face of his grief, my optimism was deemed inappropriate. A betrayal,even.

So here I am, a woman scorned for her sunny outlook. And yet, I can't help but wonder if this is the beginning of something new, something unexpected. After all, every ending is also a beginning. Isn't it?

Let me introduce you to the man who once held the world at his fingertips, or at least the Philippine stock market. Emmanuel Heneroso, or Emman, as he preferred. The name Heneroso was synonymous with wealth, with power, with the intoxicating scent of money. His father, a titan of finance, had built an empire brick by brick, stock by stock.

The elder Heneroso was a visionary, a gambler who always seemed to bet on the right horse. Or, in this case, the right stock. His fortune was the stuff of legend, the kind that made headlines and sparked envy in equal measure. But empires, as history has taught us, are as fragile as sandcastles.

When the patriarch's untimely demise cast a long shadow over the family, it became apparent that his son, Emman, was not cut from the same cloth. Where the father had been a shark in the financial waters, the son was more of a gentle dolphin, content to glide through life rather than conquer it. The weight of the inherited empire proved too heavy for his shoulders.

A year of mismanagement, of bad bets, and of simple indifference to the world of finance later, the Heneroso dynasty was in ruins. The once-opulent mansion, a symbol of their wealth, was swallowed by the relentless appetite of the bank. And so, the family that had once lived in gilded cages found themselves confined to the more modest parameters of a Quezon City apartment.

It was a fall from grace of epic proportions, a story that would later provide rich fodder for tabloids and armchair psychologists alike. But for now, it was simply the backdrop to my own personal drama.

I was his steadfast companion through it all. Cheering him on as he ventured into new business endeavors, my optimism was unwavering. But as their world began to unravel, my sunny disposition felt like a jarring discord. 

My words, once a comforting balm, now echoed in the empty chambers of my mind. 

Our arguments had become a tempestuous dance, each clash a bitter tango of misunderstandings. His final words, a cruel indictment: "Do you even understand me?" A stinging accusation that left a bitter taste in the aftermath.

The breakup was a tidal wave of pain, but time, as they say, is a healer. Work and house chores became my refuge, a fortress against the onslaught of loneliness. And now, here I am, a solitary figure at Star City, the once-joyful symphony of laughter and love replaced by the cacophony of my own thoughts.

The calendar on my phone flashed February 14. A stark reminder of a day once filled with expectation and hope, now reduced to a hollow echo

The stark reality of Valentine's Day hit me like a ton of bricks. Couples, entwined in their own little worlds, floated past me like ships in the night. A stark reminder of what once was, and what now is not.

Sitting there alone, a big wave of sadness hit me. It was a feeling I'd never felt before. 

I looked at my hand and remembered all the things we did together. Like when we held hands watching scary movies, or played that thumb wrestling game. Or how he'd write on my palm, "I love you."

Lost in a reverie painted with hues of Emman, my world tilted abruptly. As I bump into two strangers, a sticky, unforgiving symphony of melted ice cream stained an innocent dress. 

"Sorry…" I apologized to them. But when I lifted my head, I couldn't believe the face I was seeing.

"Emman," I whispered into the air.

I saw that he also said my name, "Kayleigh."

The world, in that instant, became a grotesque, surrealist masterpiece.

I could hear the woman with him cursing. I glanced at her briefly, but in my confusion, I suddenly bolted.

A tempest erupted within. My feet, devoid of reason, carried me into a chaotic ballet through a crowd. Tears, like relentless rain, lashed my face. 

A physical ache, a phantom fist to the sternum, mirrored the emotional turmoil. Each bump, each jostle, a meaningless brushstroke on the canvas of my despair.

A voice, a distant echo, broke through the maelstrom. A question, a lifeline extended. That one person I bumped into stopped me and asked, "Miss, are you okay?"

But anger, a monstrous undertow,consumed me first. Words, sharp and unkind, were my only defense. 

This was the first time I felt like I had been cheated on. I responded sharply, "You, are you okay?"

Then, clarity, a cold, sobering dawn, revealed the pathetic caricature I had become. It was only then that I realized how out of breath I was. 

My eyes traveled to the ground looking at his specs exploded into a million pieces at my feet. He knelt, his fingers tracing the wreckage, a silent accusation in his eyes. I was a deer caught in headlights, my mind a vacant lot. A silent prayer escaped my lips as I bowed, apologizing again. "I'm so so sorry."

"You should be," he growled, rising to his feet. His voice was a low, dangerous thing. I was the one trembling, the one looking like I'd lost a puppy. Panic clawed at my insides. I flashed peace signs, my hands a desperate windmill. A finger heart followed, a pathetic attempt at charm. I was a train wreck of apologies, and I knew it.

A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. 

"You're...interesting," he managed, his eyes boring into mine. Heat bloomed across my cheeks. I was a wounded animal, and he was the hunter.

Then, his hand closed over mine. "Payment for your clumsiness," he said, his voice a stark contrast to the amusement in his eyes.Terror pulsed through me. I tugged against his hold, but he was relentless.

Finally, I broke free, my wrist a fiery protest. We stood there, the silence between us heavy with unspoken things.

I kept my hands to myself as we continued walking with a bit of distance from each other, for about ten more minutes.

The parking spot was surprisingly far. When we finally reached his car, he said in a commanding tone, "Alright, get in."

I remembered the old saying, "Don't talk to strangers."

The guy repeated, "Get in."

"Wait, wait," I insisted firmly. "We don't even know each other yet."

"My name's Joseph," he introduced himself.

"Joseph what?" I asked. "You don't have a last name?"

I arched a skeptical brow, my stance firm. This man, a stranger, expected me to hop into his car? Not a chance.

"My surname's Aveda," he said with a slight rasp in his throat.

"Aveda, huh?" I drawled, testing the name on my tongue. His jaw clenched as he tugged at his collar, a nervous tic I noted. "And you expect me to just trust you and get in? Newsflash, buddy, I don't do spontaneous road trips with strangers."

His eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them. "Get in, or I'll leave you here." His voice was a low growl, a stark contrast to the earlier plea. There was a flicker of something else in his eyes, a vulnerability he desperately tried to conceal.

"Oh, please," I scoffed, crossing my arms. "The big, bad wolf act isn't working on me."

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, a silent admission of defeat. "Fine. Be stubborn." But his eyes held a different story. He wanted me there, and it was driving him crazy not to have me in that car.

"So, what do you say we start with a little trust exercise?" I proposed, a mischievous glint in my eye. "You tell me what you do for a living, and I might consider getting in."

In the corner of my eye, I saw someone nearby getting mugged. That's probably why he was pushing me to get in the car.

I glanced at him again. He motioned for me to get in, so I did. He shut the door, and I expected us to drive off. But instead, he went over to help the woman and started fighting the mugger.

I jumped out of the car and swung my bag at the mugger. The mugger ran off running after that.

The woman thanked us, and Joseph suggested we go to the police station to report the incident. We went with her, and the officers questioned both of us.

After Joseph finished giving his statement, he sat down next to me. "So, do you still think I'm a bad person?"

I pressed my lips together, then let out a breath. "Just because you did the right thing doesn't make you a good person."

Joseph shook his head. "You're something else. Any other woman would be falling for me by now. Who hurt you?"

His words hit harder than I expected. My face went blank as I replayed what he just said. It brought back memories of seeing my ex with someone else.

Was that why he broke up with me? Was he just tired of me? I thought I did everything right. I wasn't clingy. In those last few months, we only saw each other once—just like he wanted.

I broke down, unable to stop the flood of emotions. The police noticed and asked if Joseph had done something to me.

"We're just going through something, my girlfriend and I," he told them. "I'm sorry."

I stopped crying and let out a small laugh, teasingly. He joined in, and we both chuckled, lightening the tension for a moment.