www.whyville.net Mar 10, 2013 Weekly Issue

Times Writer

Living With a Broken Heart

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I look at him. So helpless, so depressed, so miserable. It hurts.

My heart drops into my intestines. My eyes water. My voice cracks, as it holds back the sadness ready to jump out of my body, and just mutters a pitiful, "I'm sorry. So sorry."

He is quiet. I can see the outline of his body in the midnight sky from the driver's seat. I want to reach out and provide some type of comfort, but I don't know how. It hurts me to see him almost cry. I see him crunch up against the window, trying to hide his face. But I know the truth.

He tells me that the deathly disease is making its final match against his second 'father'. It's any day now. He says he is barely living; both of them. I look over at him. I make contact and tell him I would be really sad if something happened. He tells me I'll be the first.

My eyelashes cry. I blink fast, trying to prevent even more. My mind is racing. I want to pull over, make both of us get out of the car then wrap my arms around him; take some of the pain away.

I fight the impulse and drop him off at his house. Before he gets out I say, "Please tell me if there is anything I can do."

He looks at me, his eyes wet and filled with emotion, "Can you make cancer go away?" Then turns his face away from my eyesight.

He steps out as soon as I shift into park in front of his house. Right before he closes the car door, his head peeks in and gives me a small smile, thanking me for the ride.

As soon as he is out of sight, I cry.

"I wish I could," I mutter. "I really wish I could. "


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