Recently, I saw a prompt to write a story told in letters. I hope you enjoy it!
Dear,
I know I shouldn’t be writing to you anymore. You made that awfully clear with your last letter. But. All the same, darling, I need you. I need to feel the way that I did on that late summer night in your garden, the stars bright above us, determining our fates and tying us together forever and ever. I need to feel the spark inside of me when you look at me and grin like you used to when we were kids and best friends and oh, so madly in love. I need you, love. And if you deny me that, so be it. I will foster your story, our story and it will be marvelous. I will keep every letter you have written to me, every memory of your joyous, wondrous laugh, every glint of your eyes as you hid a laugh behind your hand, every time your hand grabbed mine. I will treasure the life you have breathed into me forever and I hope you treasure that knowledge.
With all of my love.
My darling,
It pains my heart to receive no response from you. It is what you told me would happen, I understand, however, I yearn for your sweet paragraphs of your daily amusements. I long to pick flowers from the fields behind your house, then braid them into your hair as you hum the songs you’ve just learned. I ache for how your words sound whispered into my ear as you promise to hold me endlessly. Darling, do you not hear me as I call your name, long and loud, short and sweet? Will you not poke your head out of the window and laugh at me, just once, so I can feel accomplished? Do you deprive me of this too?
I went to the river yesterday, the one where we skipped stones and drank cherry wine, and I thought about you. I wondered what you would think of me, standing at the same spot that you had, climbing the same trees you had, living the same life you had.
Until the ends of time.
Sweet,
I came by your house the other day. I know, I know, awfully reckless of me, but. Your mother was sick and I had picked up some groceries and if the flowers in my hand were for you- well, no one needed to know that. I knocked on the door, and hearing no answer, let myself in. Your house was empty, the faint, almost eerie, ticking of the grandfather clock. The floorboards had collected a layer of dust, the living room rug rolled up and placed to the side. Sweetheart, I cannot tell you when my stomach began to sink, when the truth set in. It was all I could do to not run to your room, to paw through the drawers, the cabinets, searching for the slightest trace of you. But I gathered myself, and with the slightest tremble in my hand, pushed open your door. And I found it. I found your letter, love. I know it now. You’re gone, off on a grand adventure, and I’m still here, writing letters to your ghost. I understand, my love. I understand. And I love you. Always.
Your loyal companion.
Beloved,
It has been a year. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you, without the silent, ever present wish that you were by my side, reading my book over my shoulder. Not a day. Darling, I miss you, that much should be obvious. However, I shall heal. I shall move on, and if your ghost permits it, I shall find someone new. Darling, let me bury this letter by the old willow tree and let it grow with the tree that has watched over us as we lived, loved, and learned. Let me climb the tree and let its branches cover me as I lean my head against its trunk. Let me adore you without needing you, hold on to you without suffocating myself. Darling, let me love you in the only way I know how.
Forever yours.