A, dear A…
My first instinct was to research you. I wanted to delve into my archives and find every word I ever wrote about you, every unsent letter, and every memory. But then I would be lost. It takes so little to bring me back, and every time it happens, my heart stops. The world stops. That glimmer of bright gold hair, the way you walked like you ruled everything. And I am brought back to the last words I remember in your voice:
Come to Germany, and we can spend a week pretending we are madly in love with one another. More so than anyone ever was or ever could be.
There is some measure of delight in an idea which is proportional to its absurdity. Still, I want you to know how safe I felt falling asleep in your bed as you continued to work at your desk, late into the night. You called me evil, and you claimed to be jealous that I had the luxury of sleeping when you always had more work, but I caught you looking at me once. What were you feeling then? Your gaze was so soft that I was worried for you.
I am glad, actually, that you found her — even if that meant you left me quite suddenly to be hers. I think (I hope?) she gave you everything you needed, but that I couldn’t give you. I will never forget, though, how you came to me when you heard I hadn’t been eating. How you cooked for me and spoon-fed me. Everything was fine then.
I realised you were mine — and always would be — in a way you would never be anyone else’s. That was enough.
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)