boston {h.s.}

vingt.

Dear Reader,

It is impossible to say whether this will mark the end of my periodic interjections. Of course, I know the linear progression of the events that transpired between us. I've done copious amounts of backlogging and sifting through old texts and notes that I had made to myself throughout our time together to ensure that this story is as accurate as possible. I've no intention of being as a notoriously unreliable narrator as Nick Calloway from The Great Gatsby. Trust that everything I say—the good, the bad, and the ugly—has all been fact-checked to the best possible extent.

But that is not the point of my interjection now. These interjections, disruptive as they are, have become a safe space for me. The kind of place where I can shed the skin of naïveté, and I can instead partake in a world where both you and I know the way that things ended, presumably. Comforting as I have come to regard these moments of clarity, they are antithetical to the purpose of my writing. Effectively they manage to undermine the approach that I have adopted to telling the story, even if they are essential in my mission to continue to tell it.

I had supposed that my first interjection would be the last. But then the second came, and it was something of an anomaly. At least, it was until I reached point for the third and I recognized that as a necessity to my side of the story and the fourth piggybacked off of that as my space for a confessional. Now, in the midst of the fifth, I've come to find the overarching thematic for each of my retrospective insertion. These are the only parts in which I am allowed the privilege of hindsight, and I use that advantage as a way of emphasizing how truly paramount any individual event was to our story.

I've been very concise in the telling of the story; opting only to provide you with the most important events. Though as I've begun to recount the practicalities of our entanglement, I've come to realize how relative importance is. Perhaps I didn't need to tell you about the days in which I teach in my class. Maybe I do that only to personalize and endear myself to you. More likely: I'm so much of a literature-nerd that I find it absolutely hilarious to look at the paralleled irony between the texts that I was teaching and the secret life that I was leading.

As I sit here now, reminiscing on the time that I spent with Harry, I find myself questioning whether or not the upcoming events—predictably, of our evening at the Cape house—is worthy of such an interjection. Relating to my aforementioned point of the relativity of importance, I find it to be an imperative and cardinal truth for me to acknowledge this: it would be a disservice for me to disregard how salient that night together was. The consequence of that night was the singular determining factor in establishing how the rest of our relationship would go. So, I raise attention to it. I tell you to read every detail—and, I included every, every detail—and to acknowledge that our entanglement was more than just some impossibly cast spell. Still, I don't quite know how to quantify the true nature of our relationship, but I know it frequently tends to be categorically more.

Though, this is also the point in which I must apologize. To this day I find it hard to apologize for having done it. Such an apology wouldn't be genuine, and therefore I refrain from the words leaving my lips. Instead, I apologize to the public. To Coley. To Asher. To my brother. To his teammates. To the world. Whatever molecule of strength was left in my body disappeared on that night. On that night, I grew careless with obsession and longing. Morals be damned and I grew pathetically needy. For that, I am sorry. Caution thrown to the wind, I can't help but feel that had I reserved some strength to continue carrying on with, everything else that came after could have been avoided. It's impossible to say now, but this is one thing that I will constantly wonder.

So, I will leave you now. Until we meet again.

Torrid Affair Notwithstanding, Forgivably Yours,

Margeaux Beauchamp