“ Be with someone whose love feels like sunshine after a long, cold winter. ”
---
— Cecile —
“ I like guys who write poems and sing. What about you, Cecile? ”
I looked up from my book, startled by the question. Bernie sat cross-legged on my bed, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.
We’d been roommates for over two years now, and honestly, she was more than I’d ever prayed for. She wasn’t just a roommate—she was a blessing.
Bernie wasn’t only beautiful in the conventional sense, with her smooth caramel skin and radiant smile. She was beautiful in the way she cared for people, the way she spoke with such conviction, the way she made the world feel softer and less intimidating.
Thinking back to when I first met her, I couldn’t help but laugh at my initial nervousness. I’d dreaded the idea of sharing a room with someone new. After all, I hadn’t been able to bond with any other girl since my sister. Essy and Stacy had tried to bring me into their sacred circle, but it never worked. Something was always… missing.
But Bernie? She was different.
Her voice jolted me back to the present. “ What kind of guys do you like, Cecile? ”
I hesitated. Before I could answer, memories came flooding back—uninvited and overwhelming.
I was back in high school, standing alone at my graduation ceremony. Celine and I had previously dreamt of that day for years, imagining how perfect it would be. Her voice had played in my head as if she’d been standing next to me again.
“ We’ll wow them all at graduation, Cec! I can’t wait to see the guys we’ll end up falling in love with. ”
“ You know, the best love stories always start in senior year. That’s how it works—forever and always. ”
The memory of her excitement felt like a punch to my chest. Tears threatened to spill as the ache of longing settled in my heart. I blinked rapidly, hoping Bernie wouldn’t notice, but of course, she did.
“ You miss him, don’t you? ” Her voice was gentle, filled with understanding.
I opened my mouth to deny it, but what was the point? Bernie could read me like an open book. She never ceased to remind me of how super easy to read I was. 
“ Yeah,” I whispered.
What I didn’t say was how much I missed him. How every little thing reminded me of him—how I still searched for his face in the crowd, as though he might miraculously appear. The pain of longing was sharp, constant, and unrelenting.
I used to believe that absence made the heart grow fonder, but now I wasn’t so sure. Sometimes it felt like absence only made the ache worse, like a wound that refused to heal.
Bernie reached out and took my hand, her touch grounding me. “ You’ve come so far, Cecile. Even if you don’t see it, you’ve made progress. ”
“ Progress? ” I asked, doubtful.
She stood and walked to the bookshelf, pulling down a familiar book. My book.
“ Love Poems from a Broken Heart.”
She stretched it out to me, her eyes sparkling with pride.
I took the book from her and stared at the cover: Love Poems from a Broken Heart. The title felt strange in my hands—haunting, yet oddly fitting. I’d heard readers call it creepy, intriguing, even beautiful. I wasn’t sure which it was, or if it could be all at once.
Usually, when someone writes a collection of love poems, it’s because they’ve lived through love—the kind that lasts, the kind people dream about. Maybe they’re in a happy relationship, or they’ve spent decades with someone, growing, learning, and mastering the art of love.
But for me, it was different. My poems weren’t born out of joy or the comfort of companionship. They weren’t the result of years of shared experiences or moments of unshakable love. Instead, they came from a place of brokenness—a heart that had been shattered and was trying to find its way back together.
It wasn’t the story people expected when they picked up a book like this, but it was mine. And somehow, my broken pieces resonated with others.
“ Remember? It made the New York Times bestseller list last year. ”
The memory hit me like a wave. I’d held the first copy of my book in my hands and cried. I’d screamed, “ I did it, Cel! ” over and over until my voice was hoarse. But even then, the joy was bittersweet. My triumph was tainted by heartbreak.
“ Why don’t you turn your emotions into poetry? ” Bernie had suggested one evening, just a few weeks after we became roommates.
“But I’m already doing that, aren’t I?” I stared at her, confused by her suggestion.
“You are, but not in a complete way. You share your feelings on your page daily, but have you thought about putting them all together? Collecting them into a single book? That way, people outside your audience can connect with your words too.”
Her idea had merit, but the thought of it terrified me. I wasn’t ready—or maybe I was just scared. What would people say? Would they even want to read it?
“But I’m still just an amateur at writing poetry,” I said hesitantly. “I can’t possibly write a book. I’m too new at this.”
Her smile was warm, filled with that reassuring light she always carried, making me feel seen, heard, and understood.
“Poetry isn’t about being perfect, Cec. It’s not about who can master rhyme schemes or create the most clever metaphors. It’s about heart. That’s what truly matters.”
She took a deep breath, and I knew she was about to say something that would stay with me.
“I adore Donna Ashworth’s poems. I’ve read all her books, every single one. Do you know why? It’s not because her words are polished to perfection. It’s because they’re raw, simple, and real. She writes about loss in a way that feels like she’s been peeking into my diary.”
Her voice softened, and she looked at me with a vulnerability I rarely saw in her. “I lost my parents in a car accident three years ago. Since I was already an adult, I wasn’t placed in foster care. I had to figure out how to survive on my own. It was… hard, Cec. Really hard.”
She didn’t elaborate further, and I didn’t need her to. Her pain was evident, and I could already imagine how difficult those years had been.
“Donna isn’t Shakespeare, and her poetry doesn’t strive to be. But it’s relatable, and that’s what makes it powerful. Her words are beautifully human. That’s why I love her work. So, Cec, you don’t need to be an expert to write a poetry book. You just need to bleed onto the page.”
Her words struck a chord deep within me. Tears spilled from my eyes before I could stop them, and I quickly wiped them away, trying to compose myself.
“And you know what? There are so many women out there going through the same heartbreak and confusion as you are. They need your words, Cec. They need to feel seen, to know they’re not alone. Will you be that for them? The invisible shoulder they can lean on, the voice that makes them feel understood?”
Her words pierced through me, unraveling a knot I didn’t know was so tightly wound. Maybe it was because she sounded so much like Cel, or maybe it was just the sheer weight of her sincerity, but before I could stop myself, the tears came. Silent at first, then overwhelming. Bernie didn’t say a word. She just wrapped her arms around me, holding me as I crumbled, rocking me gently until the storm in me subsided.
When I could finally breathe again, I looked at her and whispered, “What would I even call it?” My voice was thick with emotion.
“Love.”
“Me?” I blinked at her, my disbelief evident. How could I write about love when I had never truly experienced it? At least, not the kind of love that lasted, the kind that didn’t leave you broken.
She grinned. “Yes. Love Poems from a Broken Heart.”
And just like that, the title was born. It wasn’t perfect, but it was raw. It was honest. It was me.
I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in my chest. “What would I do without you, Bernie?” The words slipped out before I could think to stop them. “I love you.”
She laughed softly, her gaze warm. “The heart isn’t completely broken after all, is it?”
I found myself smiling through the remnants of my tears. “Yeah,” I murmured, realizing that maybe, just maybe, she was right.
---
AN: Writing this chapter was an emotional journey. I hope it resonates with you as much as it does with me. Let me know your thoughts!