Repainting the Heart

He slung his backpack onto the floor and settled into one of the chairs. The unfortunate green colour, which once may have passed for mint or pastel lime was now a mottled, cracking reminder of a past long gone. At least, he thought, the light shades had a new gloss to them.

It had been four years and sixteen days since he’d last walked through these doors. It was easy to count the time it had been since his heart had cracked.

“Hey.” A man appeared and smiled at him with the gaze of a friend. “You used to come here years ago, all the time didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says, vaguely remembering him.

“You always came with that girl.” His face suddenly turned downwards. “I’m sorry mate.”

“It’s alright.”

He hadn’t wondered, as he had clutched her in his arms, whether it would be alright again. He knew, as she died on the floor of the café with mint green chairs, that his heart would only crack like the paint. He had waited years to have the courage to come back, and now, years later, he was slowly starting to repaint his heart.

He smiled. “It’ll be alright.”