Golden Thread

Her Letter

Someone once said: "Feel what you need to feel and then let it go. Do not let it consume you."

This quote often appeared in my head, as my eyes couldn't help but follow him. My heart was uncontrollable when he was near, my cheeks hotter than ever when he smiled. I thought, This is love, isn't it ?  In its own twisted way, life had brought my most precious person at my side, yet he wasn't where I wanted him to be.

Life has a curious way to twist and turn when you least expect it.

I gazed down at the blank letter paper in front of me, my fingers frozen around my favourite fountain pen. A large puddle of black ink formed under the tip, becoming bigger and bigger. My eyes stared at it, my hand unwilling to stop the darkness consuming the pristine paper.

My feelings had grown similarly, unbeknownst to me. It grew larger and larger, taking over my heart and thoughts. By the time I realised he had become my world, it was already too late.

The frighteningly beautiful letter that I received in the letterbox a month ago weighted heavily on my desk.  It seemed to mock me, the girl who didn't have the courage to confess.

It was a marriage invitation. His marriage.

I fought the urge to throw the pen at it. I spent the entire month thinking, worrying about what to write, yet when I was finally sitting down in front of the paper, my mind was completely blank. I wanted to scream, yell, hurt him the way my heart hurt when I knew I could never be with him.  I couldn't think of any word, though I doubted my fingers would even be able to write anything. They felt heavy as lead, contrary to how nimble and swift they were usually, pulling thin threads through layers of fabric easily.

I threw my head back and sighed, wanting to disappear from the world. The thought of the consequences of my letter plagued me. I wasn't sure I was ready to lose a friendship built over a decade, yet the unknown words in my throat screamed to be released.

As if liberated, the pen flew over the blank space, writing down words before I could think of them. It was as if my hand had a mind of its own, transcribing my innermost thoughts. I felt almost fearful of the raw sincerity and intimacy exposed for all to see, for him to see.

The letter was finished as the clock on my bedside table truck midnight. A fleeting thought about Cinderella crossed my mind and I couldn't help but helplessly laugh at the irony. Cinderella's love was fated to begin at midnight. Mine was fated to end.

I didn't cry, nor did I regret it. It felt like this was meant to happen, meant to finish under the tip of an old pen brushing over rugged paper. Although the black spot of ink was an eyesore, I couldn't bring myself to write it all once again.

My chest felt hollow as I stared at the pen pinched between my fingers as if it had ripped open my heart and taken away the only joy of my life. Of course, I knew the only culprit responsible of all of my pain was no one but myself. ¨

The world around me seemed dimmer, darker. It lost its colors.

As that person once said, I had felt what I needed to feel, sacrificed my love for a decade. Now, I was finally free, free from the shackles that bund me to him. I needed to let him go. As does he.

My only wish, parting wish, was for him to be happy.