Letters to Autumn

𝗃𝗎𝗅𝗒

» [ cheri cheri lady modern talking ] «
0:00 ─〇───── 2:57
⠀⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

VII. True Feelings
July 1988

July 6th, 1988. Our first argument. It was over something so small, so insignificant, that now it feels like a distant echo. Jealousy-what a destructive thing. It crept in like a thief, stealing our peace, pulling you further from me. I saw you in the diner, dancing with some other guy, and suddenly, the ground beneath me shifted. My heart twisted, my chest filled with that terrible shade of green, and before I knew it, I was outside, storming into the night.
You followed me, your voice laced with concern, asking me what was wrong. Each time, I replied with the same hollow answer-"I'm fine." But I wasn't. Not even close. Your frustration bubbled over, and you told me that I never let you in when something was bothering me. It escalated, words being exchanged like soft blows, and yet I never raised my voice. Not once.
But then, something snapped inside me, as if the dam holding everything back finally broke. I couldn't contain it anymore. I took out a piece of paper and started writing. You watched me, confused. I handed it for you to read.

"I love you, Autumn. Most ardently. With every fiber of my being, with a depth that frightens me. Each day, I'm consumed by this feeling, overwhelmed by the weight of it, as if my love for you is too vast to bear. And yet, with all that love, I carry this gnawing fear that I'll never be enough for you-that I'll lose you to someone who can give you more than I ever could.
I can't stand the thought of waking up one day, drowning in regret, wondering if I ever truly said what I felt. My heart needs peace, it needs to know-*I* need to know. Have I misread the way you look at me? Is this love I feel only my own, something I've imagined into existence? Or do you feel it too, somewhere deep down, pulsing between us like a quiet undercurrent?
If it's real, if this love is more than a dream, then hear me: I will love you with everything I have. I'll love you fiercely, without end. There will never be another for me. You are the only woman I'll ever want, and I may not have riches or grand words, but I will fight for you-for us. Your love is the light I follow, and I will cherish it for as long as I breathe."

I stood there, breathless, waiting. Waiting for something-anything-from you. But you said nothing. Your expression was unreadable, a stillness in your eyes that I couldn't decipher. And then, your friends came out, calling your name. I could feel the moment slipping through my fingers like sand. I managed a smile, kissed your forehead softly, and whispered, "Get home safe."
The drive home was agony. I felt like a fool, like I had exposed the most vulnerable parts of myself only to be met with silence. Every mile stretched on, and all I could think was how I might have ruined everything.
But then, the next morning came. I went to the door, just to grab the paper, when I saw it-a single piece of paper resting on my porch. My heart raced as I unfolded it, hands trembling slightly.

Four words, in your handwriting:
"Idem, Ambrose. Most ardently."