Love, Hate and Indifference

V} This may be something

As the summer arrived in its full grandeur, the whole academy livened up with the hopes of relaxation. The coming year would be Dorothea's last year, so she and her yearmates were secluded from this happiness. The academy had been her escape and she would soon have to leave it. Summers haunted her more than anything. 

The halls were filled with students chatting about their plans for the holidays or about their school activities. They were talking about enjoyment while all Dorothea had felt in a long time was exhaustion. Having no friends came with a slight ill-effect, you didn't have anyone when you felt like you needed someone. But that was not the case now. The letters to Isambard had made her feel like she had made a new friend. 

They knew each other quite well at this point. She knew he secretly loved knitting, he knew she loved managing the household finance. She knew he was a gentleman, all prim and proper; he knew her whole being was a rebellion.

The bond she had formed with Isambard was special, unique, and rare. But she was afraid of love. She remembered her father's stories- the boy who left the girl though she was the reason he was alive. What if she had to do the same? What if she was the reason someone had to do this? Love was one of her biggest insecurities which is why she had always turned down Isambard's attempts to take their friendship to another level. To see each other, to meet with each other. 

She was always afraid of loving too soon or too much. Isambard knew her now- she was transparent to him, but she was afraid that calling it love would maybe break everything down. What if she ended up losing this one real thing she had ever known?

The homefront wasn't very promising either. She lived alone with her stepfather and brother who both loved her but ended up treating her as a secondary member. She was a girl, she wouldn't understand. She worked harder than her brother. Other than managing the household, she accepted whatever job she got, saved as much as possible, was as unproblematic as she could. Even after all that effort though, she went mostly unseen and ignored. 

She liked to think of her stepfather as her real one, mainly because her real family was even worse. She was actually born into an Irish-French family and a wealthy one at that. They simply thought children were too much of a burden. Yes, it does sound odd. What parent doesn't love their kids? Well, hers did not. When she was just four years old, she once heard the argument between her real parents.

"The children are becoming a burden, Dreidel," her father said in his heavy French accent.

"Oh come on Harold, we can't just leave them on the street, can we? Our son is just six years old and our daughter four, how can you even suggest that?"

"What am I to do? They are dull and untalented and a big financial drain! We don't have much money to fund all this! The businesses are on the verge of shutting down, soon we'll be living penny by penny, now you want me to raise two talentless children who I know will be a burden on me for the rest of their lives? No, thank you!"

Hearing that conversation had changed Dorothea. They were thrown out of the house the next day. Their mother was too attached to her house and husband to protest. Her brother was sure his sister didn't remember anything. He had no idea memories did not work that way. That some things were just too harsh, too cruel, to forget.

All the past experiences of love she had known or heard about were harsh, tough and always ended in hurting both people. She was afraid to admit anything too soon.

The next letter she received from Isambard was about what he thought of them and the relationship they shared. He thought it was more than just friendship, though he also defined love as the purest form of friendship in the very next sentence. He was both the poet and the poetry, both the artist and the art. She couldn't bring herself to lie to him. So bravely she picked up the pen, and with all the memories still haunting her, dipped it in ink and wrote

I think so too, Isambard. I think, This may be something.