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Her tears are gentle, tender and cruel.
They stroke the careful, handwritten sentences — broken memories and fragments of a severed past. All the things she never heard but always deserved.
** ** **
If you're reading this, it's because I'm not there to tell you myself. And I'm sorry for that.
I swore I'd never fall for this cliche.
I'm remembering all those stupid books you used to read. And I can't help but wonder, how many times war has been described in a love letter. Probably about as many times as a brave fool’s died for nothing — too many times then, I guess. Enough to be a cliche.
I've written and rewritten this letter too many times for too many nights. But it's given me an excuse to keep my lamp on for a little while longer. I fucking hate the dark. And I hate going to sleep.
The war keeps you up. Sometimes it's out there, cutting, killing, murdering, butchering. All fucking night. But most of the time, the war's in your head — faces, nightmares. It's worse in your sleep. It makes sure you never forget all the useless sacrifices, the pain you've inflicted, pain you've had to live through. All the pointless destruction.
I'm sure you know the stories. Most are true.
But none capture the real horrors.
This war is hell.
And I'm a fucking captain here.
None of what I've written is what I wanted you to read. I think of these disgusting words in your hands and I feel sick. Because nothing this cruel should be anywhere near anything so tender, and gentle. And kind. You're so fucking kind it makes me want to cry.
I've sent so many people to their deaths but I don't cry. And I can hear the rats at night, their disgusting feet scuttling across the camps. I've never been religious but I'm always praying to some god, any fucking god that it's someone else those shits are feeding on, not the members of my squad.
But I still don't cry.
I watch people die every single day, in the worst ways possible and I don't shed a fucking tear.
It's only when I think of you, when I close my eyes and see you. And all of a sudden, I can't live with myself. That's what makes me cry in the nightmare of this war.
I know I've always said that I hate cliches. But fuck it — cliches are cliches for a reason. It's because they're real, and true, and beautiful. Every time. And hell, god knows I need something real, and true, and beautiful.
So I think of you — those stupid books you loved to leave everywhere, the way you'd smile, the way you'd laugh. Drove me crazy — it still does. I think of the colour of your hair under the sun and the shade of lipstick you used to kiss me with. And how the wine always tasted sweeter on your lips. I think of you, how beautiful you were, how beautiful you always will be. And how stupid I was, leaving for this war without telling you I was in love with you.
And that I have loved you for so long. I was just too proud to admit it. Thought it was another cliche — but here I am now, I'm writing a sappy love letter. The irony of life, fucking funny isn't it?
This is everything I never told you, everything I wish I had. The things that you never heard but always deserved.
So this is probably my punishment, for letting you go that easily. Or maybe, losing you is to requite all those soldiers I've sent off to die. I'll probably die out here too — another brave fool that wrote a love letter and died for nothing. But it's probably better for you and I this way. I can make peace with that.
I pray to God that someone is loving you better than I knew how to, holding you close and kissing you soft and sweet, as you always deserve. But I can't help but curse God that it isn't me.
- Levi Ackerman.
** ** **
His handwriting is written gently, tenderly, cruelly; deep words of dark ink folded quietly, in the white noise of crumpled paper.
Everything I never told you, everything I wish I had.
And in the space that once passed between their heartbeats, she feels the irrevocable hours of everything they should have been, everything they could have been — everything they never could be.
She holds it carefully, in her hands.
Her feels her husband's hand touch her shoulder.
"You alright?" he asks her.
She wipes the tears from the sound of her voice and says, "It's a letter from someone I used to know... a long time ago. He was killed in action a few days ago — a war hero. Died before he even knew it."
Her finger strokes the syllables of Levi's name.
"I'm sorry," her husband says.
A short smile crumbles from her whisper: "Yeah, so am I."
The backs of his knuckles stroke her cheeks, still damp. But he says nothing.
Instead, he gathers her into him and holds her close.
And he kisses her. Soft and sweet.