Work Text:
Beverly,
There are thousands of letters you will never read. And this one, as well, will never find you. Writing letters to you is the only outlet these feelings have and I am grateful for them. Still, sometimes, in the still of the night, I wish I could share them with you and show you just how much, how deep, how unconditionally, how devotedly you are loved. You so deserve to know it and I wish, I hope, I fear, one day there is another man that can show you. I hope you are going to be happy. I already despise him.
Loving you in the midst of all this that is our shared history, the almost and never quite’s of our story, is easy. In fact, loving you, albeit difficult, is the only thing that is easy these days.
When I was Borg and you saved me, loving you was the part of me that I could most easily reconnect with. It felt like an old friend holding my hand and telling me that everything was going to be okay. It felt familiar from the start, seeing your eyes felt like coming home. Part of me wanted to tell you then. I wasn't brave enough, Beverly. I wish I had been. So many wishes remain.
What still fascinates me is the way my feelings for you both evolve and change and still be the same. It is acceptable some of these days, almost fine. Loving you brings me hope and strength and it does not matter if there is an us or if there is not. But many days, and those are the worst, it feels as if there is not a minute, nor hour left in me. As if life has lived itself out if I do not finally show you how much, how far, how deeply I feel. Maybe, one distant day, I can. It will likely be too late, or, and what a joyous day it would be, just in time. I can only hope that I will catch the chance and, of course, that you, against all common sense, will reciprocate these dear old feelings.
Until then, I will write these letters. They change as time changes, as I change, as life changes. What remains is my love for you. Over and over again.
JL