[Scene: A misty morning on the Appalachian Trail. A father and son trek along a narrow path through the forest. The boy’s backpack sags, his hoodie tied around his waist. He’s quiet. Heartbroken. The father leads at a comfortable pace, letting nature do half the work.]
Son:
So this is the cure for heartbreak? Hiking till your legs scream?
Dad:
Yep. That and trail mix.
Also, there’s no Wi-Fi out here, so your ex can’t haunt you with filtered selfies and inspirational quotes about “healing.”
Son (smirks):
She posted one yesterday. Something about “rising like a phoenix.”
Dad:
Phoenix? More like a sparrow with a ring light.
Look, son. This trail ain’t just for walking. It’s for remembering who you are.
Son:
And who’s that supposed to be?
Dad:
Well, for starters… someone who stops begging.
For love, attention, or validation. If it ain’t given freely, it ain’t worth beggin’ for.
Son (kicking a rock):
She said I was “too available.” Whatever that means.
Dad:
Means she wanted a dog, not a boyfriend.
Know your worth, son. You’re not a consolation prize.
Son:
Yeah, well it didn’t feel like I was worth much last week.
Dad (pausing, looking at him):
That’s why we’re out here. Every step you take is a little piece of yourself comin’ back.
And while we’re at it—set boundaries. If you don’t define the line, people will redraw it for you.
Son:
She kept canceling plans, then made me feel bad for asking why.
Dad:
Yep. That’s a good ol’ case of chasing someone who don’t care.
Chase squirrels, son. Not people who walk away when you’re still holding out hope.
Son:
So… just stop showing up?
Dad:
Exactly. Limit unreciprocated visits. If they ain’t making time for you, stop playing delivery service for your feelings.
Son:
But I didn’t wanna seem mean.
Dad:
Son, there’s a difference between being kind and being a doormat with good manners.
Son (laughing):
That one needs a T-shirt.
Dad:
Put it on your merch store. And while we’re there—reciprocate energy.
If you’re always filling their cup and yours stays empty, you’re just running a charity.
Son:
So if they text dry, I text dry?
Dad:
Nah, just don’t text at all after a while. Let silence do the talking.
Also, don’t let others control you. That includes social media algorithms and people who rank you based on how fast you reply.
[They climb over a fallen log. The son takes a breath, quieter now.]
Dad (lightly):
Another one: avoid gossip. You might be tempted to talk trash, especially when your heart’s been stepped on.
Son:
She told her friends I was “too emotional.”
Dad:
Then she wasn’t ready for someone real. Let the birds chirp. You stay quiet and build.
Be excellent. Master something. Be so good they gotta squint to look at you.
Son:
Like what?
Dad:
Anything. Coding. Guitar. Carpentry. Origami, even. Just be dangerous with skill.
Son:
Origami’s dangerous?
Dad:
If you fold your feelings right, it is.
Also—invest in yourself. Upgrade your mind. Sharpen your soul. Don’t glow up for revenge. Do it ‘cause you like your own damn reflection.
Son:
That one kinda hits.
Dad:
And this one might sting: don’t chase debtors.
If they owe you love, time, or closure, and two messages go unanswered? Let it go. If they care, they’ll circle back. If not? Good riddance.
Son:
She left me on read.
Dad:
That’s not a message. That’s a billboard.
Son (quietly):
It sucks.
Dad:
I know. But don’t ever put yourself down just because someone couldn’t see your shine. Be your own damn spotlight.
[They stop at a lookout. The forest opens to a vast valley. Mist rolls over tree-covered hills like waves.]
Dad:
One more. Know your place. Not everyone deserves your presence. And when you are invited in—know when to leave.
Son:
So I should’ve ghosted?
Dad:
No, but you shouldn’t have stayed at a table where the food was cold and the seat was optional.
Last one: mirror energy. Don’t treat folks worse than they deserve—but don’t treat them better than they’ve earned, either.
Son:
That’s gonna take practice.
Dad:
Most good things do. But you’re already doing it.
Son:
How?
Dad:
You’re walkin’ forward. Not lookin’ back.
[They sit down. Share a water bottle. The breeze picks up. A quiet peace settles in the boy’s chest.]
Son:
Thanks, Dad.
Even if this hike kills me, I think… I needed it.
Dad (grinning):
Heartbreak never killed anyone. But a hill in North Carolina? That’s another story.
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