Wallisimo | A Bittersweet Romance | Chocolate Short Story @Wallisimo | Uploaded February 2022 | Updated October 2024, 2 hours ago.
For this Valentines Day, let’s dive into a chocolate short story!
Channels Mentioned:
Diane Mariee: youtube.com/channel/UCThDNxocBc31hlnLt3VrUbA
Katie Ann Writes: youtube.com/c/katieannasthewriterofscribbles
A Bittersweet Romance: Dark Chocolate Filled With Raspberry
Prompt: This is the story of two strangers with just a street between them. Together, they would come to discover a love far closer to home than they could ever have imagined.
There’s this little fear that I have, looking back on it all.
“She was a bitch,” you say with a laugh, talking about your ex. It’s our first date and I don’t let that red flag slide as we walk down a street in Denver. I call you out in the whipping Chinook wind.
We’ve been neighbors for three years now, friends for two. You’re used to my call-outs. You take them with good humor. But the word you used is sticky in my head.
When you invited me out, I was all excitement and fear. You’re the first person who's ever asked.
But I’ve heard you call three exes ‘bitches’ now. I don’t wanna be on that list someday.
“We have to preserve our friendship,” I insist.
“I will always want your friendship in my life,” you assure me. And I believe you.
So, I watch from my window as you draw hearts in the January snow across the street. I watch you smile in a Perkins at midnight. Eat pie on March 14th. Jump my car. Make me laugh. Care about your friends. Tell adventure stories with dice in your hands. Sing to me softly in quiet summertime darkness. Solve problems with me. Your endless patience with my endless rules. Long autumn drives with a 1988 coin telling us to turn left or right.
But we were on different edges. You said you would follow me anywhere. I needed to know you had goals outside of us. I’ve always been a long term planner. I’ve always wanted to prepare for the worst outcome. I’m Nostradamus in that kind of way.
Fifteen months after our windy first, we kiss goodbye in a bus station. My tears are bitter and sweet. But if it has to happen, this is how I wanted. No burnt bridges. Just bad timing. Friendship preserved. That’s what I tell myself in order to let go of your hand.
But being ‘just friends’ is shaky, even though we did it perfectly three years ago. Old feelings rise and fall during our phone calls.
A year passes after that last kiss and you’re still hurting. Hearing my voice sharpens the knife's edge for you. I suggest a temporary break. You adamantly refuse. So we email instead. “We can make it work,” you promise.
Except, you respond now at a slower and slower pace. We’ve journeyed from friends to partners to occasional penpals. But every time I see your name in my inbox, I smile. And then I wonder if I'll hear from you again in a month or two…or if these will be the last words you ever write to me.
These emails are the death rattles of our mythical ‘post-breakup’ friendship.
And when we sit in different cities and chat with new friends, going over where our past relationships went wrong, that little fear wiggles its way into my head.
I say I didn’t deserve you.
You laugh and say, “She was a bitch.”
For this Valentines Day, let’s dive into a chocolate short story!
Channels Mentioned:
Diane Mariee: youtube.com/channel/UCThDNxocBc31hlnLt3VrUbA
Katie Ann Writes: youtube.com/c/katieannasthewriterofscribbles
A Bittersweet Romance: Dark Chocolate Filled With Raspberry
Prompt: This is the story of two strangers with just a street between them. Together, they would come to discover a love far closer to home than they could ever have imagined.
There’s this little fear that I have, looking back on it all.
“She was a bitch,” you say with a laugh, talking about your ex. It’s our first date and I don’t let that red flag slide as we walk down a street in Denver. I call you out in the whipping Chinook wind.
We’ve been neighbors for three years now, friends for two. You’re used to my call-outs. You take them with good humor. But the word you used is sticky in my head.
When you invited me out, I was all excitement and fear. You’re the first person who's ever asked.
But I’ve heard you call three exes ‘bitches’ now. I don’t wanna be on that list someday.
“We have to preserve our friendship,” I insist.
“I will always want your friendship in my life,” you assure me. And I believe you.
So, I watch from my window as you draw hearts in the January snow across the street. I watch you smile in a Perkins at midnight. Eat pie on March 14th. Jump my car. Make me laugh. Care about your friends. Tell adventure stories with dice in your hands. Sing to me softly in quiet summertime darkness. Solve problems with me. Your endless patience with my endless rules. Long autumn drives with a 1988 coin telling us to turn left or right.
But we were on different edges. You said you would follow me anywhere. I needed to know you had goals outside of us. I’ve always been a long term planner. I’ve always wanted to prepare for the worst outcome. I’m Nostradamus in that kind of way.
Fifteen months after our windy first, we kiss goodbye in a bus station. My tears are bitter and sweet. But if it has to happen, this is how I wanted. No burnt bridges. Just bad timing. Friendship preserved. That’s what I tell myself in order to let go of your hand.
But being ‘just friends’ is shaky, even though we did it perfectly three years ago. Old feelings rise and fall during our phone calls.
A year passes after that last kiss and you’re still hurting. Hearing my voice sharpens the knife's edge for you. I suggest a temporary break. You adamantly refuse. So we email instead. “We can make it work,” you promise.
Except, you respond now at a slower and slower pace. We’ve journeyed from friends to partners to occasional penpals. But every time I see your name in my inbox, I smile. And then I wonder if I'll hear from you again in a month or two…or if these will be the last words you ever write to me.
These emails are the death rattles of our mythical ‘post-breakup’ friendship.
And when we sit in different cities and chat with new friends, going over where our past relationships went wrong, that little fear wiggles its way into my head.
I say I didn’t deserve you.
You laugh and say, “She was a bitch.”
