Forever is Not Real: George Washington x Y/N

Chapter four -

Dear Georgie,

Do you remember that time when we went sledding with my brothers, and we drank warm milk after Watson almost iced his hand off? I remember it well. I stared at you the whole time.

Washington, I remember. I knew I felt something deeper than what could be felt in just a week or two. It's like you've been waiting to reveal yourself, and now that you're finally here... I messed it up. I'm sorry. I would like to make it up to you by responding to your questions.

My dream is to be a librarian, to give recommendations based on the person who wants them. But no matter what career I end up in, my dream is to be happy and loved. You haunt my dreams, like a ghost that feeds off of fear. Fear that I have lost you and the me that I found in you. We are more similar than you'd think. I have parents who provide for me, and although they may not agree with my independent lifestyle, they still send me letters every so often.

I have to go; butter won't sell itself.

Safe travels, Y/N

You give your letter a quick once-over then pop it in the mail bin on your way to the market. Thinking about Washington the whole time you are there, every time you hand out a mold of butter, you think of Washington's voice and how it sounds like butter, or how his hair looks like he rubbed butter on it—but in a good way.

Weeks pass, and you look forward to the day when Washington's letters arrive. You tear them open the moment you get to your apartment. Sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. Sometimes you think deeply about life and how different our new nation will be, sometimes you giggle at the play-by-play of what's happening in the constitutional convention. Washington opens up to you. He talks about how he thinks of you and your ideas while he's debating and how he knows he was wrong. And you admit that you were too harsh on him initially. And over the course of five long months, that's how it's been. Giggles and tears.

Until one crisp autumn morning, when a letter arrives from Washington—as usual—but this one was signed with his first name. Just George.

Dear Y/N,

I have been thinking about how to start this letter for weeks now. How do I tell a girl that I cannot stop thinking about her? That she has consumed not only my thoughts but my way of life. I feel empty and yet I feel more alive than I ever had. I feel whole when I read a letter from you. I wait by my window, watching the postmen, and I pray that one of them could hold a letter from you. I have thought of you so much it makes me sick. You are the reason I am here and leading this debate for our new nation. Because I want it to be good for you. A place where you don't have to marry. A place where you can be free.

I don't think I'm free. I will always be chained to America. She is my life. Was my life. Now that this convention is coming to an end, I feel I have more time to devote to other things. To myself. To you.

We have talked. Of course. But have we truly listened to each other? I want to know all of you. Not only just your future plans or greatest fears. I want to know what your favorite flower is, why you love warm milk so much, what your childhood was like after I left. You are a book with no cover. I do not want to fix you, I want to read you. Flip through your pages and learn how you work. I want you.

From the moment you stormed out of my house in the rain. I knew it was you. From the first touch of my pen to write this letter. I knew it was you.

It was always you.

Always always always and Forever. I love you.

Because I love you, though. I need to leave. To let you be who you want to be. I cannot be the one who holds your boundless spirit down. I cannot love myself If my love for you is the reason you give up on yourself. Tomorrow night I will leave, and I will propose to Martha Custis. Her father is big in the political world and will ensure that our country is left in good hands.

I wish I could love you how I want to, but I wish for you to be happy more than that.

It will always be you. 

- George Washington.