He was fine.
Just that she had dropped his heart when he gave it to her.
She held it, the thing pulsing and fragile, awaiting her next move.
She dropped it onto the ground and walked away.
Maybe she had weak hands, maybe she didn't.
He tried to pull his broken pieces back together, using false encouragement he told himself as tape.
It wouldn't be the same smooth heart again, would it?
But the veins are beautiful too,
every scar left behind a reminder:
not of the fall,
but of the mending.
And it waits, for another owner with more particular tastes.