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Dear Alhaitham,
We met behind bookshelves, a mere exchange of glances, and silent acknowledgement of each others’ presence. At the time, I ignored you. I had no idea I would ever see you again, let alone in one of our shared classes. Not when you’re my junior, so far ahead of my studies, and most of all, not even in my same darshan. Inter-darshan classes are hard to get into, you know?
Where I was—am—Kshahrewar, of technology and the arts, you are Haravatat, of semiotics. There was no reason for us to have met, or be assigned the same position in our joint research project, and yet, we did, and we were. Fate is confusing, like that.
Yes, I believe it is fate that brought you to me, or me to you. I believe the stars of celestia aligned themselves in the sky one day, lighting the path you walked along up the stairs to the Akademiya. I believe their glimmer brought you to the House of Daena that evening, when we first met.
It is crazy to think that you or I have ever been apart, now that we spend so much time together.
Your footsteps are my morning birds outside my window, and your face the sun peaking from the clouds. Your words a poison in the coffee you pour me like an elixir, a cure-all to my ailment that is you. A love-sickness, if you will. But you would probably know a better word. That has always been your thing.
Ironic that I sit here, waxing metaphors in a letter I write to you, who walk along the desert today, and yesterday, and the weeks and months before. I know it’s pathetic. You always tell me when you’ll be home, even when I swear it unnecessary. You always give me nothing but transparency, and there is no reason for me to miss you.
But I do.
I miss you terribly.
It is winter, and the birds cannot even chirp to fill your void. The clouds never part for the sun, not until later in the day. Your voice is not here to soothe the heat or pressure in my chest when I think of you. It is not there to quicken my heart and warm my body. All I have is the cork board in our living room you left the night you departed from me, scattered with notes of ancient Sumeran and desert script.
I love to look at your handwriting, however illegible, just to see a bit of you in the home. Of course, there’s your books, which you left out when you left. But I have cleaned in your absence, and organized your novels alphabetically, by genre and topic, for you. I miss you.
I guess that is all, to put it simply. I miss you. So I cannot stop reminiscing about these things, because I miss you.
Please write me back, if you are not busy.
Love, Kaveh.
;
Dear Alhaitham,
I hope you simply have not gotten around to responding, or maybe your letter hasn’t arrived. Actually, I know you probably just wait to return and fill me in yourself, rather than inconvenience yourself with another thing to tire your wrist with. All of these things are fine. Any of them. If any of them.
I still miss you.
I can say that more confidently now, instead of after several paragraphs of sentiment on our lives, of which you already know and do not need to be reminded of.
I miss you.
Sometimes I wish to go in your room just to lie on your bed and remember you. It is hard to be without you so long. Today marks the seventh month.
Regardless, I stay away from your room. It’s yours, and I shan’t intrude. I know you would tell me to go in anyway, and to lie down and soak up everything I needed if I must. But it feels wrong to lie there without you. You dressed your bed with new sheets the morning you left, and the fabric would be awfully cold. I think, if anything, it would create a wider tear in the hole of my heart.
I hope your research is going well. Only another five months before I get to see you again. Even the kettle whirs with excitement at the prospect. Or, maybe, the rumble of boiling water, but that would make too much sense.
Oh, how I miss your sarcasm.
I miss it so dearly, even when it aggravated me every moment of every day.
I really should keep this one shorter. I think this can be the end.
Warmest wishes,
Kaveh.
;
Dear Alhaitham,
I am growing concerned with your lack of reply.
I cannot tell if it is your laziness, or some unfortunate delivery miscommunication keeping you from responding to me. One of these is significantly more forgivable than the other. The first fills me with dread.
I worry I’ve done something wrong.
It has been a month since my last letter, and I’ve waited patiently for you.
Please tell me if it is something of my doing. I will never do it again. I will fix it. It does not have to be like this.
I also worry that you are in danger.
That one is the hardest to entertain.
One, it is unrealistic, and two, it is scary. You would never let yourself be harmed. You are with a trusted team of matra. You are safe. That is what I tell myself, every night before bed.
I’ve never been particularly spiritual, but recently I have taken to something like prayer. My hands clasp together, and I hope into the universe that you are safe. If I am particularly perturbed that night, I will beg it to keep you so, even at my own expense, if it must.
All this to say. I am here, and waiting, and your lack of reply fills me with woe. Winter ends soon. I cannot help but miss you.
You know this.
Love, Kaveh.
;
Alhaitham,
I hate being angry at you.
I have been so frustrated recently. I am well aware you are a man without expressive compassion, but I would’ve thought you could at least send me a simple “I am okay.”. I miss you. Can’t you see what it’s doing to me? Have I not made myself clear enough?
I miss you with everything inside of me. I write you even when I have hundreds of commissions across my desk. I go into your room only to dust your shelves and keep it clean. I set your coffee mug out beside mine every morning for months, and eventually began drinking from it instead, recently.
I touch the metal of your keys whenever I leave our home, with gentle, clean hands so as to not ruin their shimmer. I cannot believe you left them; also, I am not surprised in the slightest. What I am most surprised by, is that you did not take my own, instead. That is most unusual. It sends a shiver down my spine.
Your extra boots sit beside mine at the entrance to the foyer. There is a hair along the toe, which I found and held in my palm for several moments, just to feel close to you in the slightest. I miss you like I have lost a part of myself, and like I will never be able to get it back. I miss you like I have missed very little before you. I miss you so much. It is all I know how to say. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
And I am angry at you for making me wait here without a single word. Without a single affirmation. I need it. I need to know you’re out there. I know it makes me paranoid, and clingy, or whatever it makes me. But I am worried. Please just tell me things are alright with you. Please just tell me nothing is my fault. Please just tell me anything.
Please write back,
Kaveh.
;
Alhaitham,
I’m not sure why I’m writing this.
You are not responding to anything, but still I hold out hope for a reply. I know you are cold, and you not-so secretly hate me most of the time, but please set that aside. Let me be selfish. I hate to admit that I need to be, right now. But I need it.
A stray cat meets me outside your window every morning.
She ran from me at first, but I set aside a portion of the meat from my meals from her, and she has begun to warm up. It is for the best, as the season warms too, that she brighten with it.
Along with her presence, the roses along the sidewalks have bloomed. Dew settles along their leaves in small droplets, and the scent of fresh rain is ever-present. At least when I am outside.
I regret to inform you that our home smells as much like a tavern as Lambad’s. I regret to say that morning coffee has been replaced with morning whiskey. It is not my most flattering feature. I am sorry, I know you hate this part of me. I wanted to warn you of what you would return to in a few months.
I am not doing well, but missing you has gotten manageable. I believe I have resigned myself to this position. Missing you hopelessly, knowing you don’t care enough to reply. I honestly wonder if you even read these. If you even care.
It keeps me from wondering if you’re still out there to read them.
I buy the Sumeru paper, now. Did you know they started publishing one, since the abolishment of the akasha? How convenient. You would surely think so.
I check it to make sure you have not died. They would never let that go unnoticed. My scribe.
Ah, that brought me joy. To call you my scribe. To celebrate what is yours, that title which highlights everything you are. Which screams that you are not just important to me, but to the world. You are my scribe. Mine, and the Akademiya’s scribe. Wow.
Enough gushing.
I have attached enough mora to this letter for you to afford to send me a letter. Yes, I checked how much it would cost to deliver something to me across the desert, and the forest. Please do not make your penniless friend waste his paycheck. Please write me back.
Kaveh.
;
Alhaitham,
They have sent out search parties.
I gave up writing you for those last few months. I was selfishly heartbroken. I cannot deliver this letter, so I am a fool for writing it. It will never get to you. I will throw it away when I am through. But for now, I had to tell you.
If you are not safe, I will go through every important document in your room, and pour ink across every page. If you have let yourself meet your demise early, at least before me, I will start a bar tab in your name and make you pay it off in your next life. If you are dead, I will hate you for the rest of my life.
Please be safe.
I miss you.
I have started sleeping in your bed. It no longer smells like you. But there is a you-shaped indentation in your mattress cover. That is where I find my comfort.
The cat joins me, most days, over my chest. She keeps me company where you cannot. She will stay when you get back, but I hope it is you who I can hold every night, and be comforted by.
I miss your broad shoulders and low laugh. I miss your slight stubble, and especially the way you can’t seem to grow any real facial hair besides a mustache. I miss your ears, and that stupid tuft of hair you keep over your eye. I miss your mouth. I miss your words. I miss your hands, and your touch, and I miss your presence, and I miss you. And I miss you. And I miss you. And I miss you.
Be safe.
I love you,
Kaveh.
;
Dear Alhaitham.
I am angry with you again.
Are you stupid?
Quicksand?
You must be a fool, unless you were trying to die. I almost can’t believe it. Quicksand. You’re unbelievable. Leave it to you to die in the most impossibly dumb way at your disposal, and the most gut wrenching to me. Of course, you just had to do the remarkable. Be the second ever group of researchers to be caught in Sumeran quicksand.
I cannot afford your home anymore.
You had no will, so the house was not left in my name, nor was any money to sustain it, assuming that you would’ve wanted that, anyway. I have moved in with Lord Sangemah Bay. I know you hated her, but she is all I have as of right now. I brought the cat with me. I resented her, for a moment, for staying with me when you couldn’t.
The Akademiya has assumed right to all of your possessions. I kept your mug, and your keys, and your boots, and your books. That is all I could take.
You have left no legacy, and people still speak your name behind their hands and under their breath, as if you and your super-hearing are still around to hear it.
I don’t know if I miss you. Not right now. I am miserable. I feel so much nothing. I needed you. You are gone. I was right when I asked you if I should go to assist. You’ve never stayed in the desert so long, none of those matra had. You needed someone like me, or Cyno, or anyone else who you would’ve kept beside you long enough to save you from such untimely demise.
I will keep writing you, if I can. Even as you don’t respond.
I have nothing else.
You have left me with nothing else.
I know it isn’t your fault, but still I blame you for my hurt. I could not be hurting like this, were you not the one who made me love you in the first place.
I loved you.
Rest well, my scribe.
This letter was written without a sign-off.