She wrote to me. This isn’t just a title or a sentence; these four words overflow with emotions. When I pronounce them, stars collide, and the earth is consumed because it’s all I’ve ever wanted. I craved that—her addressing me with some words. And she did, writing to me with the ink of her heart.

She lived in my thoughts, her home for a while. I was too shy to approach her, but one day she wrote to me:

“Dear stranger, Forgive me for knocking on doors like that; I’d rather enter your life another way. But things are what they are, and what can we do about it? I know you don’t even see me, but I want to tell you that you’re so handsome. I’d be happy to see you, to meet you somewhere. Please, don’t think I’m a desperate woman who needs attention from any man. No. It’s just you, and I cannot keep it to myself anymore.

Your future friend.”

Through this message, I felt the echo of her heartbeat. She wrote to me, and in those words, I found a home.

When we first met, I dared: “Maybe it’s going to be your best love story, sweetie.” She looked me in the eyes and said: “People can’t hold themselves from talking about love, but they don’t really know what to say. They don’t really know what love is. Please, don’t be like them!”

And she continued: “Listen, baby, I don’t want you to be the hero in my story, maybe the bad guy, as I will surely be the demon in yours. I’m not even sure it will be a love story. Perhaps. And if not, who cares? I just don’t want to let go of this chance to get some excitement with you. I want you to know that I’m into you. I have nothing to hide; I’m like a captain who has unveiled all his plans. See, I’m here in front of you, with a naked soul, with no defense. Get into my armor and conquer my place, but I swear you won’t get to bleed me…”

I was surprised she could be so frank with me.

“I don’t want to say stuff like: I love you. I’ll always be there for you to listen to you.”

The blood in my veins was drying. I couldn’t control my words, so I heard myself whispering to her:
“And what if I continue: Maybe tomorrow won’t play as we plan today, but I’ll be there to guide you when you need a forehand and a light in the dark?”

She was taken aback.

– “Shut up! Don’t say anything more!”
– “I promise…”
– “I hate promises. They’re too heavy to carry, too scary. They take up too much space. Soon, you and I will be history! We don’t need to lie to each other. No stupid feelings that will tie up our lives. I don’t want you to get addicted to my eyes or maybe to my… words.”

After saying that, she left me no right to reply, imprisoning my lips with hers. We had a great moment together, saluting the time that has not closed its heart for us. Her smile has the scent of the roses that she planted on my skin.

Days went by, and she continued to write to me, and we saw each other. Every moment we spent together was engraved under my skin, in the memory of my mind. The last time we were together, I felt like she had had enough of me. She said: “Here we are, staring at each other. We knew it couldn’t last forever, and it’s time to say goodbye. All these things say that it’s over!”

I smiled, hearing the tears like raindrops inside of me. I heard the sound of her strokes, the light broken in my mind. My pain had no voice, so she could not hear it. It was not visible, so she could not see it, and it had no name, so she could not call it. But it was alive in me, yelling its downfall. I was the only one to know it.

She extended her hand and said: “Take my hand, kiss me for the last time, and baby, if I die tonight, I’m off to paradise.”

She warned me. I didn’t have to put love on all that we felt together. Now I’m wandering with pieces of my heart in my hands. But at least she wrote to me, and her letters are a testament that I have lived something strong that words cannot even describe. Through the chaos of life, her words bring me comfort and light. Each message is a chapter in our story, and with every word, the desire of holding her in my arms grows stronger…

It’s been three years since I’ve received a word from her. I am like a poor ruminant, ruminating old texts I keep religiously. I find myself returning to her messages like an old love song, reading between the lines to refill my batteries. And after all this time (an eternity), this morning I found a mail… she wrote to me. Oh, what a wonderful day!

Witensky Lauvince