Sweet May [ENG]

Dear H:

Don’t ask me why; don’t look for me, don’t even try. There is nothing left, there can’t be. We knew it from the start; we shouldn’t have taken the risk. I want to forget, but I can’t. You disconcert me, you know that. This is over; it isn’t right.

But the biggest problem of all is that we knew. We knew the consequences, we knew what we stood to lose. And yet, we ignored it; we took the chance. It was beautiful while it lasted, but we can’t go on like this. Hiding, lurking away from curious eyes and unsettling rumors. Stolen kisses, disguised caresses, complicit glances. It was never more than that; it couldn’t be more. If only I hadn’t looked at you that day, if I hadn’t discovered the secret in your green eyes. If only I’d known what was waiting for me.

But... who am I kidding? Sooner or later, it would have happened. Do you believe in destiny? I do, and I think we were destined for that, just as everything has led me to this: writing you a farewell letter with tears in my eyes.

It was all as you always used to say: “A sweet temptation”. But now that I think about it, I realize that perhaps for you it was just a game—temptation in every sense of the word. And we all know that “Temptation” is not the same as “Love”; they are two different concepts, and one does not lead to the other. That is why, precisely because I realize you knew it all along, this ends. It is the end of the sweet temptation, of this beautiful error.

Goodbye forever.

May.

P.S. I loved you.

The pen falls onto the wooden table with a dull thud, echoing in the hollow silence of the room. I stare at it for a long time, my fingers still trembling from the force with which I held it.

Silence.

Only the incessant, rhythmic tick-tock of the wall clock fills the space; a sound that used to be a background murmur, camouflaging our awkward silences and the ragged breaths we shared. Now it resonates like a hammer striking an anvil, counting the seconds of my new reality. Everything that needed to be said—and everything I should have kept buried—is now engraved on this thin, fragile piece of paper.

I fold the letter with agonizing care and slide it into the envelope; my movements are slow, as if I were handling a time bomb about to explode. I hold it tightly, my knuckles white with determination.

Writing this letter, leaving everything behind and abandoning him to his fate... it has been hard; harder than leaving my home five years ago, harder than starting from scratch in this town. But I can’t let her get hurt. I am not willing to let Clare pay for my mistakes, even if it means breaking my own heart into a thousand irreparable pieces in the process.

My steps pretend to be firm as I walk down the main street, yet I feel my knees shaking beneath the fabric of my linen trousers. The afternoon sun begins to set, casting long, skeletal shadows across the pavement, like judges watching my path intently. I pass my aunt’s cafe, the place where the air always smells of roasted beans and cinnamon; today, that smell only makes me nauseous.

No, May. Don’t look back. Don’t be a coward. This is the right thing to do.

The mailbox stands on the corner, a blue and rusted executioner waiting for my sentence. I slide the envelope through the slot, but my fingers refuse to let go. I stand there, like a marble statue, while the wind whistles through the trees. I close my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath that burns my throat, and finally, I release my grip. The letter hits the bottom with a sharp thud, as if it were truly empty and didn’t contain my overflowing feelings.

That’s it. The bridge is burnt. There is no turning back.

I don’t go home, nor do I return to the cafe; I don’t feel capable of facing my aunt’s sharp eyes or her demands right now. Instead, I sit on a bench to wait for the mailman. I watch the world go by, but I feel as if everything is still moving too fast and I am unable to keep up with the rhythm.

I am not aware if minutes or hours have passed—I don’t have my phone on me, not even a watch—but after an indeterminate amount of time, I hear the mailman’s boots echoing down the street. He is a man of routines, indifferent to the lives he carries in his yellow cart. He opens the mailbox, gathers the letters—my letter—and walks away without a second glance. Unaware that he now carries my pain, my suffering, my secrets. glance.rets