Let's Talk About Love

A man sitting on veranda listening to music - story of heartbreak and a woman standing behind him.

"We’ve all had those moments where a song on the radio hits us right in the heart. For my friend Patrick, it was a Celine Dion classic that opened up a world of pain he had been hiding for years. This is a story about heartbreak, 'charm', and the unexpected way love finds us when we’ve given up."

Can Music Heal a Broken Heart? Patrick’s Journey to Finding Love Again

The evening sun was a bruised orange, hanging low over the horizon as Patrick sat on his veranda. He was a man suspended in time, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts, staring at the dust motes dancing in the fading light. To anyone passing by, he looked like a man resting after a long day’s work, but internally, Patrick was drowning. Life had begun to feel heavy, like a leaden coat he couldn’t strip off. Every breath felt intentional, every movement a chore.

The silence of the neighborhood was suddenly punctured. From a neighbor’s open window, the soaring, crystalline voice of Celine Dion began to drift through the cooling air. The melody was "Let’s Talk About Love." It was a song he had heard a thousand times before, but today, in the isolation of his grief, the notes felt like needles.

He listened, paralyzed by the beauty of the arrangement. The lyrics spoke of the spectrum of human emotion—from the innocent laughter of a child to the heavy, salt-stained tears of a grown man.

Patrick didn't even realize he was crying at first. It started as a warmth in his eyes, then a blurring of the world, until the first heavy drops rolled down his cheeks. He let out a ragged sigh, a sound that had been trapped in his chest for years. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, but it was a futile gesture. The dam had broken, and the tears kept coming, fueled by a decade of suppressed agony.

An Unexpected Encounter

Faith was walking home from the local market, her pace brisk, until she saw him. She was a woman who navigated the world with her heart on her sleeve, and the sight of the young man sitting alone on the veranda, shoulders shaking in silent sobs, stopped her in her tracks. There was a profound loneliness in his posture that touched something deep within her.

She didn't know him, and in this neighborhood, people usually minded their own business. But Faith felt a pull she couldn't ignore. She adjusted the strap of her bag and walked up the small path toward the veranda.

“Good afternoon,” she said softly, her voice a gentle anchor in his storm. She offered a small, tentative smile, one that projected peace rather than pity.

Patrick flinched slightly, startled by the intrusion. He took a tired breath, trying to compose his features. “Good afternoon,” he replied, his voice thick and gravelly. “How may I help you?”

Faith stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance. “Please don’t be offended,” she said. “I was just passing and saw you. I couldn’t help but wonder what could make such a handsome man look so utterly heartbroken.”

Patrick gave a weak, cynical smile. “It’s love,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the radio in the distance. “And this song… it just reminded me how much I’ve been hurt. It’s funny how a melody can act as a key to a door you thought you’d locked forever.”

“Sometimes doors need to be opened so the room can breathe,” Faith said gently. She leaned against the railing. “May I hear your story? Sometimes a stranger is the best person to talk to—no judgment, just ears.”

Patrick looked at her for a long moment. He saw no malice in her eyes, only a genuine, quiet curiosity. “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell a stranger,” he muttered. “At least then the story belongs to the wind and not just to me.”

As the music transitioned into another sweeping ballad about trust and life, Patrick began to unravel the threads of his past.

“Where do I even start?” he asked, looking at his hands.

“Anywhere is fine,” Faith encouraged. “Stories don't have to be linear to be true.”

“Okay,” he took a deep breath. “I met Charity in high school. It wasn’t one of those sudden, Hollywood moments where the world stops spinning. We started as friends—study partners, really. But slowly, gradually, it grew into something so deep it frightened me. She became the center of my universe. I used to think she was the very oxygen in the room. I loved her with a ferocity that only a young man who hasn't been broken yet can possess.”

He looked off into the distance, seeing a girl that wasn't there. “One day, under the shade of the big mango tree behind the school, I told her how I felt. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. To my shock, she said she felt the same. From that moment, the world turned from grayscale to vivid color.”

He described their relationship with a bittersweet nostalgia. It had been perfect—the kind of love that neighbors gossiped about with envy. He had changed his entire life for her, even becoming a devout churchgoer just to spend more hours in her presence. His parents had welcomed her; her family knew him. They were the golden couple of the area, dreaming of a future filled with white picket fences and shared lives.

Patrick paused, realizing he had been talking for several minutes. He looked at Faith, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. What’s your name? I can’t keep telling you my life story without knowing who is holding it.”

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “I’m Faith.”

“I’m Patrick,” he said, extending a hand. Her grip was warm and firm, a stark contrast to the coldness he felt inside.

He continued his tale, his voice dropping an octave as the story turned dark. He spoke of the transition to university—a distant campus that required long bus rides and even longer nights of longing. He had worked odd jobs to save money for visits, determined that distance would be nothing more than a test they would pass.

But the test proved too difficult for one of them.

“Then one day, she called me,” Patrick said, his voice cracking. “I can still hear the static on the line. She told me she couldn't do it anymore. I was confused, thinking she meant the distance. But she meant us. She told me I was just a student, that I couldn't provide the life she wanted. I begged her. I told her about my business plans, my ambitions. I told her I would work three jobs if I had to.”

His eyes hardened. “But she told me her aunt had found a man for her—a man with money, a man who was already established. She told me it was over and hung up. Just like that. Years of devotion ended in a thirty-second phone call.”

He described the frantic journey back home, the desperate tears at a locked door, and the cold realization that the woman he loved had moved on without a backward glance. To survive the rejection, he had turned himself into a machine, burying his soul in textbooks and labor until he was a ghost of his former self.

The Finality of Silence

Faith’s eyes were misty now. “That must have hurt so much,” she whispered.

“It hurt like hell,” Patrick said. “But the universe wasn't done with me yet. About eight months after she married that man, I got a message from her sister. Charity was dead.”

Faith gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Dead? How?”

“Childbirth complications, followed by a sudden illness,” Patrick explained. “She had a baby boy, but her body just gave out. The doctors were baffled. Her family believed it was spiritual—juju, they called it. Whatever it was, she was gone. And the tragedy didn't end with her.”

“The baby?” Faith asked.

“She is six months old now and completely mute. She has never made a sound. Not a cry, not a whimper. It’s as if the joy was drained from her.” Patrick looked up at the sky. “When I heard that Celine Dion line tonight—from the laughter of a child and the tears of a grown man—it all came rushing back. The guilt, the love, the anger. I realized I was still waiting to say goodbye.”

A New Melody

The air between them was heavy with the weight of his pain. Faith didn't offer  any easy answers. Instead, she moved closer, wrapping her arms around him in a supportive embrace. For a moment, Patrick stiffened, then he melted into the warmth, resting his head against her shoulder.

“Love terrifies me now,” he whispered into the air. “I feel like if I open my heart again, it will just be another room for someone to leave.”

Faith pulled back, looking him directly in the eyes. “Patrick, what happened to you was a tragedy, but it wasn't a sentence. You are allowed to heal. You are allowed to be more than a broken husk.”

“How?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“By letting someone in,” she said with a certainty that startled him. “I won't promise you that life is easy, but I can promise you that you don't have to be alone. Let me show you that real love doesn't cause such pains.”

As the final notes of the music faded, the radio station change. The soft, rhythmic introduction of another Celine Dion classic, "Love Doesn't Ask Why," began to play. The song’s message—that love is an instinctive, unexplainable force that doesn't require logic—seemed to wrap around the veranda like a warm sun shine..

Patrick closed his eyes. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in his chest felt lighter. He looked at Faith’s hand, still resting in his. He realized that love isn't something you prepared for. It’s something that happened unexpectedly.

It doesn't ask for permission. It doesn't explain its timing. It simply arrives, often when you are least prepared for it, offering a chance to turn the story around.

Faith Speaks

After a moment, Patrick disentangled himself from Faith's embrace. He looked up at her and wondered if he was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. He hardly knew her, and yet she was willing to give him the love he desired. How can a stranger who was walking by just hear his story and decide to love him?

Faith could see the battle going on in Patrick's eyes; she wondered what was wrong. He looked confused and undecided.

"What is wrong, Patrick?"

"I don't know. I'm just confused about you."

"Me?" she asked with an agitated look. "What is it about me that confuses you?"

"I don't know you or your story. I have no idea why you would accept a total stranger like me after hearing my story."

She had a small smile on her lips as he said that; she thought he was about to say he couldn't do it again. "Is that all?"

"Yeah. I need to know you and who you are. I need to know your kind of personality and why you would accept me just like that. Mind you, I appreciate your kindness, but I need to know the real you, not just your emotional part."

"My name is Faith, as I told you. I'm a sucker for sentimental songs, too. I love caring for people and I grew up in a family that has nothing but love. My dad, I can only say, is a deadbeat dad. The love I talk about is from my mom and siblings. I'm not a graduate; I couldn't attend the university due to funding, so I work as a salesperson in a retail shop. I didn't just accept you due to your emotional state or vulnerability. No, I can never do that to a human being because I have faced the worst of men in society.

"I can't say everything about me, because I, too, can't define myself. I guess with time you would come to know me and my wrongs. If there is any and you don't like it, just say it and I will be better for you."

"I don't want a perfect person," he said.

"No one is perfect."

"What do you mean by meeting the worst men in society?" he asked her.

"Well, I was dating this guy. I was madly in love with him, but he was just a guy using me. I did things for him—things I can never do and things I never supported in my life. He used me for five years; he destroyed my innermost humanity to the brink of destruction."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be. It is not your fault."

"I opened an old wound."

"Don't worry. So, I was used by Melvin in a way where I saw other men as predators stalking vulnerable women like me. I sold illegal stuff for him; I carried illegal stuff so he could escape the cops. I did disgusting things for him all in the name of love, but at the end, he discarded me like a used paper. He told me while laughing that I was a fool—a very big one—and he was glad he had used me to earn a good chunk of illegal cash. He told me I should be proud for working hard for him and said, 'I could have rewarded you with a baby, but I can't have a baby with you. He could have the kind of small brain you have.'"

"That is wickedness extraordinary," Patrick said as he moved toward her. "I'm sorry," he said as he embraced her. He could see how she trembled, and he felt a sense of duty to protect her.

They stood there holding each other, just basking in each other's embrace. Then the station switched to "Hero" by Enrique Iglesias, and he muttered, "I will always be your hero to the end of days."

Patrick's story is a reminder that grief doesn't have a timeline. Whether it's the loss of a partner or the sting of betrayal, healing starts when we stop running. Have you ever had a song change your perspective on a bad situation? Let me know in the comments below.

In memory of my friend Christabel.