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MidReal Story
The Broken Heart Syndrome
Scenario:Taco and Pickle used to be together, but when Pickle realized Taco was using him, he cut her off. Taco had tried and tried to send letters to apologize, Pickle just never read them.
When Taco finally tried apologizing face to face, Pickle didnt accept the apology.
But Taco had her ways.
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Taco
first_person_protagonist, female. She is a woman who deeply regrets a past relationship and is trying to make amends. She is patient, loving, and remorseful. Taco was deeply in love with Pickle and suffered heartbreak when Pickle rejected her. She spent years writing letters and attempting to apologize, but Pickle never read them. When they finally met again, Taco was determined to apologize facetoface and win back Pickle's trust.
Pickle
side_character, female. She is a woman who was previously involved with Taco and was hurt by their past relationship. She is stubborn, emotional, and guarded. Pickle left Taco after discovering their relationship was toxic. Despite Taco's attempts to apologize, she chose not to read Taco's letters or meet her again. When they finally met in person, she was resistant to Taco's advances but ultimately accepted her apology, allowing them to start anew.
Years ago, I wrote him a letter every week.
I only wanted to apologize.
Even if it took years, as long as he was willing to see me, I didn’t mind.
But no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I wrote, he never read a single one of those letters.
Because Pickle never wanted to see me again.
He said it was over.
And it really was over.
I yearned for him for a long time.
My love for him was like a seed planted in my heart.
It grew and matured slowly over time.
The pain of heartbreak was like the winter that made the seed freeze.
But even though the seed froze, it didn’t die.
When spring came, the ice melted, and the seed germinated.
The power of love can make even a dead seed sprout.
I knew that Pickle hated me, but I still wanted to try.
I had to tell him that I was sorry.
Maybe he would never forgive me, but I had to take that risk.
I sit at my weathered desk, pulling out fresh stationery and my favorite pen.
The blank page stares back at me as memories flood in - the way Pickle used to laugh, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
My hand trembles as I begin writing, confessing how I manipulated his feelings and explaining the therapy I've undergone since then.
Tears smudge the ink as I detail specific moments where I hurt him, acknowledging each wound I caused.
After four pages of raw honesty, I sign my name and seal the envelope, knowing this letter holds my last chance at redemption.
The next day, I find him sitting on the park bench where we first met.
"Pickle," I say softly, handing him the letter with trembling fingers.
He looks up, surprise flickering in his eyes, and whispers, "I never stopped loving you, but I needed to know you truly understood what you did."
I stand motionless as Pickle takes the letter from my trembling hands.
The autumn wind rustles through the park, scattering leaves across our feet at our old meeting spot by the oak tree.
She unfolds the pages carefully, her eyes moving across my handwritten words.
I watch her expression shift - first tightening with pain, then softening gradually as she reads about my therapy sessions and realizations.
Her fingers trace over the tear-stained confessions on page three.
When she reaches the final paragraph, she pauses, takes a deep breath, and gives a slight nod.
"Did you really mean every word?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," I reply, my heart pounding in my chest, "I meant every single one."
She looks up, tears glistening in her eyes, and says, "Then maybe we can start over, but it has to be different this time."
I reach for Pickle's hand, my fingers trembling as they brush against hers.
She doesn't pull away.
The afternoon sun filters through the oak leaves above us, casting shifting shadows on the letter that now rests in her lap.
My throat tightens as I explain how I've changed, detailing the specific steps I've taken in therapy to address my manipulative behavior.
Pickle listens intently, her eyes fixed on mine, searching for sincerity.
When I finish speaking, she squeezes my hand gently.
The simple gesture makes my heart race.
"I want to believe you," she says softly, her voice filled with emotion.
"But I need time to see if this is real."
I nod, understanding the weight of her words.
"I'll do whatever it takes to regain your trust," I assure her.
She pauses, then asks, "Will you give me time to think about it?"
I nod again, knowing that this moment is a turning point.
"Yes, take all the time you need," I reply.
The silence that follows is filled with unspoken questions and hopes.
The tension between us is palpable as we stand there, the only sound being the rustling of leaves in the wind.
Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Thank you for giving me this chance," she says, her eyes filling with tears.
I take a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest.
"I'll do anything to make it right," I promise, my voice trembling with emotion.
The moment hangs in the air like a delicate thread. "I suggest we walk around the lake," I say softly, needing movement to process these intense emotions.
Pickle nods, folding my letter carefully and tucking it into her jacket pocket.
We follow the gravel path in silence at first, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we walk side by side.
When we reach the wooden bridge, I stop and lean against the railing, explaining my plan to rebuild her trust - weekly coffee dates where we talk openly about our feelings, separate therapists to guide us, and clear boundaries about physical intimacy.
Pickle listens intently, then adds her own conditions: complete honesty about my whereabouts and no rushing into old patterns.
As we leave the bridge, I notice Pickle's shoulders have relaxed.
The gravel path crunches beneath our feet while golden leaves drift down around us.
I tell her about the time my therapy dog ate my favorite shoes, and her laugh rings out, genuine and warm for the first time today.
She counters with a story about her new cat's midnight zoomies, gesturing wildly with her hands.
Our steps slow naturally, neither wanting this moment to end.
When she brushes against my arm, I don't pull away.
We continue walking, the silence between us now comfortable and hopeful.
As we near the end of the lake path, I spot the familiar green awning of Bean's Coffee Shop ahead.
My heart races as I consider asking Pickle to join me.
"Would you like to grab a coffee?" I ask, gesturing to the café.
"I remember you always loved their caramel lattes."
Pickle hesitates, checking her phone for the time.
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across her face as she considers my offer.
I hold my breath, not wanting to pressure her but desperately hoping she'll say yes.
After what feels like forever, she nods slowly.
I hold the door open for Pickle as we step into Bean's Coffee Shop.
The familiar scent of roasted coffee beans and vanilla hits me, bringing back memories of our past dates here.
Pickle hesitates at the threshold, her fingers brushing against the doorframe.
Inside, the afternoon crowd fills most tables, but our old corner spot by the window remains empty.
The barista recognizes us, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
I gesture for Pickle to order first, watching as she approaches the counter.
Her shoulders relax slightly as she orders her usual caramel latte.
As she steps back, I order my usual black coffee, trying to keep the moment light.
"Do you remember the time we got caught in that rainstorm right outside?" I ask, hoping to spark a shared memory.
Pickle smiles softly, nodding. "And we ended up staying here for hours, talking until they closed."
I watch Pickle's hands wrapped around her caramel latte, steam rising between us in the warm coffee shop.
The afternoon sun streams through the window, casting shadows across our small table.
My coffee sits untouched as memories of our past flood back - all the times we sat here before, sharing secrets and dreams.
When Pickle sets down her cup and meets my eyes, something shifts in the air.
Her fingers drum lightly on the ceramic mug, and I notice how they've stopped trembling.
A quiet determination settles between us, unspoken but understood.
I stare at Pickle's hands wrapped around her coffee mug, remembering how they used to feel in mine.
The afternoon sun streams through Bean's front window, casting warm light across our corner table.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out.
The quiet between us feels different now - less guarded, more like before.
Pickle takes another sip of her latte, leaving a small foam mustache that makes me smile.
She catches my eye and doesn't look away.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," she says, her voice steady but soft.
I lean forward, heart pounding. "What is it?"
She takes a deep breath, meeting my gaze with a newfound resolve. "I've decided to move back to the city."
I lean forward in my chair at Bean's, my coffee forgotten as I process Pickle's news about moving back.
The familiar clink of cups and coffee shop chatter fades into background noise.
She traces the rim of her mug with one finger, explaining she starts her new job next month at the downtown hospital.
My hands grip my cup tighter when she mentions her apartment hunt.
Without thinking, I blurt out that I know some available places in my building.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't immediately dismiss the idea.
"Really? That would make things a lot easier," Pickle says, her voice tinged with surprise.
I nod, trying to sound casual. "Yeah, I can introduce you to the landlord if you want."
Her lips curve into a small smile. "I'd like that, actually."
I walk Pickle to her car outside Bean's, my mind spinning with possibilities of her moving into my building.
She pauses at her driver's door, fiddling with her keys.
I want to hug her but keep my distance, remembering our agreement to take things slowly.
Instead, I pull out my phone and send my landlord's contact information while she watches.
My hands shake slightly as I type, knowing each message brings her potentially closer to living just floors away from me.
