"My final letters, were they read? Or were they written in vain?"
Although born in France, Juliette Villeneuve often spent her childhood summers in London. With the passing of each summer, her adoration for a certain Bridgerton boy grew. During thei...
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July 7th, 1810
My dearest Anthony,
I strolled through the gardens of Parc Monceau while the sun peaked in the cloudless sky. Warmth caressed my exposed skin, easing the coldness dangerously sprouting within. For the first time in months, the bitterness swelling inside my heart dimmed.
The refreshing spring was rudely disrupted by the eager onset of summer. Lush flower beds and rose bushes remained beautiful, however struggled greatly under the heat. Patches of brown within the lavish green grass showcased the yearning for a restorative rain.
The dawn of summer strains the beauty and prolific life nurtured in spring.
Your image plagues my nights and my days. Visions of our past burn my skin to a degree the fiery sun never could. Fantasies of our future dwell at the forefront of my thoughts, yearning to manifest.
However, perhaps a hidden grace, these coveted fantasies will never experience the intense sun nor the endearing moon.
Half a year has passed since you last replied. I have sent plenty of letters addressed in your name. Intricate strings of words intertwined solely for your gaze. Were my letters written in vain? A fruitless attempt, my Anthony?
When am I to expect to read the gentle words of your heart once again? When will your penmanship of 'Dear Juliette' bless my eyes and weaken my breath?
My Anthony, you pain me. Seven long years we exchanged letters during my months in France, the months of our distance. Were those plentiful letters written in mind of a futile outcome?
I would rather not speculate, but were our summers filled with hollow promises as well?
Summer in Paris is no rival to summer in London. Nevertheless, I regret to inform you, I will not be returning to London in the approaching years. My heart cannot handle your neglect in flesh, it is a feat in itself to accept the ghostly letters and fraudulent memories.
