7
The Letters
After not seeing A. for a long time, I met him again unexpectedly. I was terrified by the burst of joy that erupted like a flame in my soul. Such joy, I knew, could only end in sadness.
A. was happy too, and, like me, he tried to hide his joy. I didn’t want him to see my foolish desire for happiness that wouldn’t last. He hid his excitement out of his selfish desire that later, when his fleeting romantic feelings gave way to his practical view of life, he would not have to regret the words he’d spoken out loud.
I decided to lock up my feelings, not to let him see into the depths of my soul. I still remembered all too well what happened last time I voiced my feelings. And now, through feigned indifference, I wanted to smooth over the openhearted declaration I made last time. No matter how fiercely my heart pounded, like it was trying to applaud for love itself, my lips did not let one word pass that would give me away.
“You look very nice,” A. said. “You’ve gotten even prettier since last time we saw each other.”
“I’m well,” I answered curtly.
“It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other,” he said after a short pause. “I wanted to see you, but I’ve been so busy!”
“Me too.”
“You have too? With what?”
“This and that.”
“I thought you always just kept to yourself.”
“That’s how it used to be.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m busy with other—things.”
“Have you made any new friends?”
“Yes . . .”
“Interesting people?”
“A few, very interesting.”
“You see, that’s good. New people make your life more interesting. You used to avoid new people.”
“I got too used to the old ones.”
“And now? Have you gotten used to these new ones?”
“I’ve made it a habit not to get used to anything.”
“That’s good.”
Why did he seem so unhappy when he said “that’s good”? It seems what’s good for one person is not so good for another.
“Would you like to go to the park with me?” he suggested uncertainly.
“Sure, how about the park? The weather’s so nice. But only for a little while.”
“As long as you like.”
“That’s good.”
“What, are you busy today?”
I nodded.
“Is he coming to see you today?” he asked with a faltering smile.
“I have to be . . . I promised to be in a certain place at a certain time,” I responded firmly.
“Is it very important?”
“Yes, it’s important.”
“If so, then I won’t keep you long. I’ll let you go.”
“Whether you let me or not, I do have to go.”
“You’ve changed so much.”
“This is how I am.”
He was quiet and seemed sad. His displeasure pleased me. I felt easy, almost carefree. I thought, “It’s so easy to make someone believe a lie. And it can feel so good, sometimes, to make someone else feel bad!”
Neither of us spoke. We walked to the park together like we were in pursuit of something. He kept sneaking glances at me. We ambled toward the setting sun, and for a time we stood and admired it.
“What a beautiful sunset!” he cried. “It would be so nice to sit here until sunrise!”
My heart quivered. Did he really want to sit there with me all night, or was he just testing me?
“Would you sit with me till morning?”
“Not today.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“You know. I already told you.”
“Ah, yes.”
He bit his lip. He broke off a twig from a branch and hit it against the nearby trees. The thwarted lover protested. This woman who he was so sure he could always have at his side had refused his invitation to stay longer with him!
“Do you have to talk about it?” he asked contemplatively. “That’s how words are. They can ruin a few hours—they can ruin your whole life.”
We were quiet for a while. It was so hard to pay attention to the silence when there was so much we could be saying! How many kind, gentle words I could have spoken! I could have told him how I longed for him the whole time we were apart. But I sat next to him silently. My heart had drowned and died within me, yet it still longed for the time when I’d part from him and be alone with myself and my horrible loneliness.
A painful accusation took hold of me: A. was the one to blame for my suffering. I wanted to cause him pain, to take away some of his contentedness, his confidence in everything. I wanted to make him doubt whether my feelings for him had been true, and in doing so I wanted to bury his faith in others too.
“Do you really need to leave so soon?”
It seemed like he’d been thinking about it.
“Yes, I do, I’m sorry to say.” I started to walk down the path that led out of the park. As I went, I was hounded by questions: “Who am I running from, and who am I running to? From him to myself. And what should I do now? Where can I run to escape myself?”
He walked alongside me and looked unabashedly at the faces of girls heading toward us, into the park. They responded flirtatiously, and his silent glances seemed to promise them something as soon as I left.
“You’re walking too fast,” he said. “Why don’t you take a streetcar, if you’re in such a hurry?”
“A streetcar? Good idea. I will. Goodbye.”
“I’ll go with you to the streetcar,” he said, grabbing hold of my arm as I was waving goodbye.
It was all the same to me whether he went with me or not. Either way, it would only be a few minutes until I’d be alone.
With a sharp pain, my heart shattered. I felt like gasping out loud. I looked at him with hidden horror, trying to see if he could tell what was happening inside of me.
“Do you want to say something?” he asked, catching my glance.
“Say something?” (Yes. I wanted to say something that he would remember.) “Yes, I do. Do you still have my letters?”
“Yes.”
“You certainly don’t need them.”
“Do you want them?”
“I . . . yes. I’d like them back.”
He looked at me strangely, bit his lips and, after a long pause, said, “Do you want me to bring them to you?”
“You can send them to me, if you’d rather.”
Another long pause, and then a quiet, stubborn, “Alright.”
The letters that belonged to A. are now laying here in front of me. They silently ask how I could take them away, how he could give them up. He does not love me.
I did it to myself. By taking the letters back, I broke the last thread of memory that connected me to our past. I want to tear up the letters, these tangible signs of my love. I want to burn them. But I can’t. My heart begins to pound; my hands fall powerlessly to my side.
A spark of hope, like lightning amid dark clouds, shines through my desperation. Perhaps he’ll come for them. Maybe he’ll ask me for them back. After all, they’re his!