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MidReal Story
The Broken Hearted Vampire
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 with a complicated past. She is determined, passionate, and introspective. Taco deeply regrets her past actions towards Pickle and tries to apologize sincerely. Her letters to Pickle are filled with heartfelt remorse and promises to change. Despite her failed attempts at facetoface reconciliation, she remains hopeful that Pickle will forgive her someday. Her past relationship with Pickle was marked by her using him emotionally, but she learned from her mistakes.
Pickle
side_character, male. He is an individual who was involved with Taco in the past. He is resolute, emotional, and strongwilled. Pickle struggled with the emotional manipulation he faced from Taco during their relationship, which ultimately led to its downfall. Even years after their breakup, he remains unwilling to forgive Taco for the pain she caused. His encounter with Taco in the present is marked by his refusal to listen, indicating his deepseated hurt and resistance to healing their past wounds.
Years ago, I did something very bad.
I can't even type out what I did, because I'm too ashamed.
But it was to a man named Pickle.
And let me tell you, he was the love of my life.
Even though I only used him for my gain, he was a good soul.
I know this because he still took care of me, even when I treated him very poorly.
After it all went down, I knew I had wronged him very badly.
So I wrote him many letters.
I must have written hundreds of them.
And in every single one, I apologized profusely, and begged him to forgive me.
I told him how I had changed, and that if he gave me another chance, I would be the best girlfriend he had ever had.
But Pickle never read them.
He didn't even look at the envelope they were in.
He just threw them away.
And that hurt me even more.
Because it showed me that he didn't even care about me anymore.
Not one little bit.
So I tried another tactic.
I went to where he lived, and waited outside his door until he came home.
And when he did, I fell to my knees and apologized profusely, and begged him to forgive me.
I remain on my knees, tears streaming down my face.
I pull out a journal from my bag.
It's a little worn and tattered, but it's filled with the most important things I've ever written.
I open it up and show Pickle the pages.
They're filled with notes from my therapy sessions, and all of the work I've done to understand why I do the things I do.
My hands are shaking as I hold the journal up for him to see.
Pickle stands in his doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
He doesn't say anything, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's interested.
"I know what I did was wrong," I say, my voice shaking.
"And I'm not asking you to forgive me. But I want you to know that I've changed. I've been working hard to understand why I do the things I do, and how to stop."
I point to the pages in the journal, where there are notes about all of the progress I've made.
"I've been seeing a therapist, and she's helped me understand that my behavior is a result of some deep-seated issues. And I've been working to overcome those issues."
I turn the page and show him some specific examples of how I've changed my behavior in recent relationships. "For example," I say, "in my last relationship, there was a time when my partner wanted to go out with his friends. And in the past, I would have gotten really upset and tried to control him. But this time, I took a step back and realized that he needed some space. So I let him go, and we ended up having a great night together."
I turn the page again and show him another example.
"Another time, my partner was talking to someone else, and in the past, I would have gotten jealous and tried to interrupt them. But this time, I realized that he had every right to talk to whoever he wanted. So I stepped back and let them talk, and it ended up being a really positive experience for both of us."
When I finish speaking, Pickle reaches out and takes the journal from me.
He flips through the pages slowly, reading each one carefully.
I watch his eyes scan the final pages, and I see his expression soften slightly as he reads about my weekly therapy sessions.
The evening light casts long shadows across his porch, and I can hear the distant chirping of crickets in the trees.
Pickle closes the journal with deliberate care, then looks up at me.
My legs have gone numb from kneeling, but I dare not move.
He studies my face for a long moment, then glances at his watch.
The silence stretches between us until he finally clears his throat.
"It's getting cold out here," he says, his voice quieter than before.
He steps back from his doorway, creating space.
"Do you want to come inside and talk?" he asks, his tone cautious but open.
I nod, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within me.
As I stand up, he adds softly, "I can't promise anything, but I'm willing to listen."
I step into Pickle's living room, my legs still shaky from kneeling outside.
The room is dimly lit, with only a few lamps illuminating the space.
The air is thick with the familiar scent of his sandalwood candles, transporting me back to memories of our time together.
Pickle gestures for me to take a seat on the worn leather couch, while he settles into the armchair across from me, maintaining a careful distance.
As I look around, I notice small changes in the room.
There are new photos on the walls, different throw pillows on the couch, and a few pieces of artwork that weren't there before.
It's clear that Pickle has continued to live his life while I've been away, and that thought fills me with both sadness and hope.
My hands fidget with the hem of my sweater as I wait for him to speak first.
Finally, he clears his throat and asks, "So, what have you been up to since we broke up?"
I clutch my sweater tighter, struggling to meet his eyes.
My voice trembles as I begin to explain.
"I've been working at a new bookstore in town," I say.
"It's been a great experience, and I've met some wonderful people there."
I pause, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"I've also been seeing a therapist every week. She's helped me understand why I do the things I do, and how to change my behavior."
I look up at him, hoping to see some sign of understanding in his eyes.
"I've also started taking pottery classes," I say.
"It's been a great way to manage my anxiety and stress. I find it really calming."
Pickle nods slightly, his expression unreadable.
"And what about your family?" he asks.
"Are you still in touch with them?"
I nod, feeling a mix of emotions.
"Yes, I am," I say.
"They've been very supportive of my therapy and my efforts to change. They want the best for me, and they're willing to give me another chance." Pickle nods again, then looks down at his hands.
He seems lost in thought for a moment before he speaks again.
"What about pets?" he asks.
"Do you still have any?"
I smile slightly, remembering how much he loved animals.
"I actually adopted a rescue cat a few months ago," I say.
"Her name is Bean, and she's adorable. She loves to curl up on my lap when I'm reading."
Pickle smiles slightly at the mention of Bean, and for a moment, I see a glimmer of the old Pickle in his eyes.
"Can I see a picture of her?" he asks.
I nod eagerly and pull out my phone from my pocket.
My fingers fumble with the screen as I search for the photo of Bean curled up in my reading chair.
Finally, I find it and hold it up for Pickle to see. He leans forward slightly to get a better look at the photo, and as he does, our eyes meet briefly.
For a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all, and we're back in our old routine of sharing stories and laughter together.
But then Pickle looks away again, checking his watch for what feels like the hundredth time since I arrived.
He sighs softly, then says, "I have to admit, seeing you here is... unexpected."
I bite my lip, unsure of how to respond, but he continues, "I just need to know if this is real, or if it's just another one of your phases."
My heart aches at his words, but I nod, understanding his hesitation.
The evening shadows deepen, and I notice Pickle's hands are trembling slightly on the armrests.
His doubt hangs heavy between us, and the physical distance feels like a canyon.
Gathering my courage, I slide forward on the couch, closing some of the space between us.
His eyes dart to my movement, wary but not retreating.
The clock ticks loudly in the silence as I consider my next words carefully.
My heart pounds as I lean forward, slowly extending my hand across the gap.
Time seems to freeze as my fingers hover over his hand resting on the armchair.
My fingertips brush against his, sending a jolt through my body that makes me gasp.
His skin feels exactly as I remember - warm and slightly rough.
He doesn't pull away immediately, and I feel his pulse quicken beneath my touch.
The familiar electricity between us resurfaces, making my chest tight.
The room seems to fade away as memories flood back - our first kiss, lazy Sunday mornings, shared laughter.
But then Pickle's expression changes, a mix of longing and pain crossing his face.
His fingers twitch beneath mine as he visibly struggles with the moment.
I lean closer, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
The lamplight casts shadows across his face as I whisper those words I've rehearsed countless times: "We can try again."
His hand tenses under mine, and his breathing becomes shallow.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence that follows.
I notice his jaw clench and unclench as he processes my words.
My thumb traces small circles on his skin, testing boundaries.
He doesn't immediately respond or pull away, but I feel his pulse quicken beneath my fingertips.
I hold my breath as his face softens in the dim light.
His eyes dart between our joined hands and my face, searching for something.
The tension in his shoulders slowly releases as he processes my words about starting over.
The clock's steady ticking fills the silence between us.
After what feels like hours, the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
Though barely visible, that slight movement changes everything.
His fingers finally curl around mine, returning the gentle pressure.
The gesture speaks volumes - more than any words could convey.
I hold my breath as his fingers intertwine with mine.
The living room feels warmer now, more intimate than before.
When he speaks those soft words about taking things slow, I squeeze his hand gently to show I understand.
Neither of us moves for several minutes, both processing this fragile new beginning.
The clock strikes nine, breaking our shared silence.
Pickle carefully withdraws his hand and stands up, gesturing toward the door.
I rise too, knowing not to push for more tonight.