My Dearest —,
I love you.
It must be crazy for me to say that, after all this time. I know this isn’t fair of me, that it might make things hard for you. But I can’t leave this world without saying it to you one last time.
We had good times, right? Those stolen moments in empty corridors, sneaking kisses when no one was around, sharing secrets under the covers late at night, hoping we wouldn’t wake the other girls. When guilt’s heaviness keeps sleep at bay, I still think of the way you’d bite back your smile when you would be held after class, because behind sister Maria’s back I’d blow you kisses as I left the room. The humor we had then, when the weight of the world on our shoulders was made lighter with the knowledge that we’d share the burden with each other. When we dared to hope we could share it for the rest of our lives.
I wish you could have watched me walk down the aisle, that I had walked toward you instead of him. But then, I could write a thousand pages of the things I regret about you, but that’s not what this letter is about.
I wonder if anyone will read this, if it will ever make its way into your hands. I do not know much about your life anymore, or whom you share it with, other than they are not me. Did you find someone to love you? I hope that, whoever they are, they love you at least half as much as me, for I am not sure any more is possible, but doubly as well as me, because that is what you deserve.
You must wonder why I write after all this time, a singular letter in response to the hundreds you wrote me after I left school. I could make you excuses, but you never knew me to make them, so I won’t do you the disservice of starting now. My mother withheld your letters, I only receiving them after her death. But I know in my heart that, had I read them as you sent them, I still might not have replied. I do not say this to cause you more pain, though my sentiments might be in vain, but only so you might have a truer picture of me, and not look at me in the soft ways I know you do. I was always the more selfish of the two of us, and, though it hurts my pride to say, also more cowardly. I know this to be true because of the care you took in those letters, the thought you put into planning our escape. I write to you now so you know that those letters were not sent in vain. Since receiving them, I have read them over dozens of times, so much that I wonder if I like to give myself pain, for your words are as painful as they are sweet.
I ache with visions of what our life together could have been like, had I the courage to follow your plan. We would have been shut out of our town, but have found a life in the city, where the people are more open. We might have had a tv, to appease me, but kept it out of our bedroom, to appease you. I might have brought home a cat one day, and you would have complained about the hair, but then you would grow to love her more than anything. Well, almost anything, for I know you could not have loved anything more than you did me. We would settle fights with kisses and whispered words in the night, and I would learn to cook so you wouldn’t have to after work. I would do your laundry like I used to, and you’d give me massages while I worked. We would go to the movies at least once a month, and on our anniversaries, we would celebrate with flowers and dinner at your favorite restaurant, and then I’d drag you to the lake so we could dip our toes in the water and talk about the world like we did when we were in school.
Had I been less cowardly, and I could have defied my parents, I would have fought for that future. It would have been hard, being on our own, but I think our love would have been worth it. Don’t you? You did, at one point, when you wrote those letters. But then, the last one was sent six years ago, and though you sent me letters for nearly seven, I wonder how my lack of response might have tarnished your love for me. Did you think I was angry at how things turned out? That I was punishing you because I was the one who was turned away? Did you think me cruel? Or that my love for you faded with time? I ache knowing you needed comfort, and I wasn’t there to give it.
I wish I could have seen you at least one more time after, where we could have talked with the knowledge that it would be our last conversation. Though I suppose these letters are our last conversation. I’ve written my new address for you, should you want to write, or come see me. I don’t know if this letter will reach you, if you’ve moved since your last letter, or if it will get to you before this sickness gets the better of me.
But should we meet again, either in this life, or wherever we go after this, I hope you can forgive me. I will think of you, always.
I love you.
Yours for ever,
—
