𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒

第八 | EIGHT

please comment along the way for motivation! more comments = faster updates

.

.

PAST

You liked writing letters to no one. You saw this as some sort of diary; writing your deepest personal thoughts down into a piece of paper. That way your fears—your feelings—it would be made physical. And being physical meant it would alive, somewhat. That everything was valid. And once the letter was done, you would crush it and toss it into a burning fire. You would watch the paper crackle in the fire, reduced to embers, and you would think to yourself: this is what it means to be in this position. I cannot feel anything. I cannot be allowed anything.

So when those unwelcome feelings came, you did what you always did: you wrote those feelings down, raw and tortured and ambivalent. This was a gift you could afford to give yourself. And then you stared at the letter, mesmerised, almost disgusted at the fervent longing evident in it. It was pitiful, really, on how much you had allowed those feelings to grow.

Did you know, Claude? That I would have truly done anything for you. Anything in the world. This is how much I love you. How hard it is for me to not love you. My love for you extends to an upsetting amount—to the point I fear you would look at me with eyes full of disdain should you ever find out.

I would sacrifice my life for you. I would. But part of me wishes that day would never come, for this would mean that you would be in danger. And I cannot even imagine how I would feel if my sacrifice was in vain. And what use would I be? I would die with no one to remember me. Would you grieve for me, I wonder? Would your crimson eyes allow themselves to soften, for me? It is wishful thinking, maybe, but I like to think that someone would mourn my death. That perhaps you loved me, even if it was little. Even if you—we—found out too late.

I worked hard to be by your side. Handling matters of the estate is no easy feat; though you make it look effortless. Since young I have always tried to follow your footsteps, plodding towards the same goal. Others have said our connection was special, our relationship sacred, but for too long I have allowed myself to hope. The truth is I am hollow, and I fear that if I ever told you how miserable and sad I was, will you still look at me like I was normal? If tell you about all the broken bits in my body and heart, will you look at me like I was whole? Tell me, Claude. Will you? Would you?

I love you. I am yours, the way the sea belongs to the moon, the way the moon belongs to the sky, the way the clouds cling above. And even when hell boils over I will still see heaven in your eyes.

I wish I didn't love you.

You felt strangely calm after writing that letter. You folded it smoothly, uncreased the edges of the paper, and placed it on your table, meaning to throw it away.

Yet you went against the unspoken rule.

You kept the letter.

.

.

After you had died, Claude shut himself in your room. The smell of flowers was overpowering—dead people received flowers more often because regret was stronger than love. Claude knew that. Because he regretted his actions everyday.

It was funny, really, to see the torn pieces of the paper you had left in your drawer. Claude raged at the audacity of time when it dared to move on—when he so clearly didn't. And how many weeks had it been since you had died? Time should have stopped to grieve the dead. Time should had reverted back to reverse the wrongs. And yet everyday he woke up feeling completely helpless.