The Things That Stay

The Last Letter, part 1: Holly - May 23rd, 1965

So this is it. The last one. After one hundred and thirty-two letters, after four months, this is what we have to show for us. This is what's left: one hundred and thirty-two letters. You told me that once we got to Darynane More, we would sit atop the island and read them aloud to each other until we finished them all. That was always the plan, but I suppose we got caught up in it all. And now here I am with one hundred and thirty-two goddamn letters feeling like a fool as I sit alone in an empty church and try to believe in the God that everyone talks about. Anyway, you never told me what I was supposed to do if things didn't go to plan—you had it all figured out to a tee except for the most important thing of all. Well, perhaps you did have that planned out. You just didn't want to mention it.

So here I am, sitting in an empty pew with nothing but my indecision and a demulcent yet persistent bitterness, clutching a foot-high stack of letters tied with a string. Don't really know what to do with them, to be honest. You never really specified, and I'm not sure if I have the stuffing in me to read them. I feel as though I'd be shattering something precious if I did. But then again, I don't really know the point of keeping them like this if I don't even read them. It'd be like I was wasting something. Don't know what that is, exactly, but the feeling persists, though I'm afraid that if I do read them, I'll forgive you and even start to miss you, and that scares me beyond my wits.

You see, I'm waiting for you, waiting for answers, and I honestly don't know what to do with myself. You'd think me quite pitiful right now. I think me quite pitiful, too. And here I am looking for a sense of atonement—relief—hope. I'm turning into a sap like you. But this is starting to feel like a bit of an anti-climax. What now? Isn't there supposed to be more than this? Isn't there supposed to be some sense of fulfillment? The adventure is over; the punctuation set and accounted for. What did I miss? And why can't I decide between loving you and hating you? Like the incident by Cammarna—it was most definitely your fault, and yet you still kept my head above water—literally and figuratively, I suppose—and I was once again torn between thanking you and hitting you right in the chin, or at least imagining it. You know I generally am not the physical type, not including your little escapade that got you jailed for an hour and a half. But you deserved that.  

So what am I to do? That's all I can really ask at this point. Just give me some sort of answer and perhaps I can stop being so pathetic. Because I really don't like this feeling at all—I'm used to having it all figured out. But what am I to do when I find out that things don't always go as planned? As you know, I've never been one for serendipity. Spontaneity. Impulsiveness. All that rubbish has never really suited me. I thought I was getting better at it—you rubbed off on me, and this whole damn trip certainly didn't turn out the way I thought it would. Then again, what was I expecting, really? And what am I expecting now? You won't read this. I won't send it. No point, honestly.

I'm rambling. I almost miss you asking me what the hell I'm talking about. You starting catching on later, though—even sat there and listened to my drawling. So that's where I'm going to start and end—you. I think that's appropriate, don't you?

I met you three months and twenty-two days ago. I didn't start counting until it started mattering. It takes awhile, sometimes—for people to matter. Nobody ever matters much to me at first. But that's the funny thing about people—they grow on you. They really do.