The Heartbroken - S01 E195

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E195

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 195

It’s been almost six days since the last time I’d seen

those eyes.

Seth lifted a hand in a small wave.

His lips were tugged into a smile that was anything

but happy, and as I walked closer, I found myself

unable to tear my gaze away from him.

His hands were on the table, right beside a cup of

frozen yogurt, and his hair was disheveled, like he’d

been running his fingers through it a lot.

He looked tired but I knew it wasn’t the kind of

exhaustion that could be fixed by any amount of

sleep.

I carefully lowered myself to the seat across him.

His bruises from the fight were nearly gone as well,

save for the particularly large one on his jaw, and I

missed him so f-----g much it was all I could do to

keep myself from staring.

“Hey,” he said, voice surprisingly steadier than I

excepted. “You came.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I have been a major a-----e who, a couple of

days ago, said a major a-----e line to you.” He lifted

a shoulder in a small shrug. “I think that’s reason

enough.”

“The whole time we spent together, I’d been nothing

but a major b---h to you,” I pointed out, “I don’t think

that stopped you from driving to my house at two in

the morning just because I had a bad dream.”

This earned a genuine smile from him, one that

nearly took my breath away. He leaned back and

shook his head ever so slightly, letting his smile fade

and his expression soften. “You can still change your

mind and walk out on me right now.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Seth, I’m not leaving.

Not when you’re clearly upset.”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “What makes you

think I’m upset?”

I pointed at the cup that sat between us on top of the

table. “Because your frozen yogurt is not so frozen

anymore.” I raised my gaze to his and maintained

eye contact. “And I don’t think you’ve eaten even one

spoon of it.”

He stared back at me.

“And if fro-yo doesn’t do the trick,” I said, “then it

must be really, really serious.”

He dropped his gaze and something about this—

about the way it made him look as if he had been

defeated—confirmed my fro-yo theory. He picked up

his cup and stared at the various toppings

swimming in the melted yogurt. With a sigh, he

replaced it back on the table.

“Whenever I was upset,” he said, still not looking me

in the eye, “Sam would always bring me here.”

His gaze was distant, like he was watching a

memory unfold.

“The first time we came here was during third

grade,” he said, a forlorn smile on his face. “You

know Melissa Park?”

“That tall Korean girl?”

He nodded. “Well, I, a skinny and scrawny and

highly ambitious kid, decided to give her a love

letter.”

My brows shot up my forehead.

He seemed to have expected my reaction and he

laughed, shaking his head. “Let’s just say it didn’t end

well. So Sam, who was a fifth grader then,

demanded for Dad to bring us here. She was such a

bossy kid,” he told me, “and she literally talked to

Dad like she was older than him. So he drove us

here and we ate. Ever since then, whenever I was

upset, we would go here.”

His voice trailed off, eyes trained on the table.