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Hey Leona. Long time no see? Well, you're not going to see me. And there's a slim chance you'll ever see this letter. How long has it been now? 8 years? 10? I’m pretty sure I stopped counting sometime after 5. Sorry about that.
It’s been so long. I still remember your face. I remember the tone of your voice, telling me off, chiding me.
Do you remember when we got so drunk, that one night, staring at the sunset? And you said: “I’ll remember this forever.” Or something like that. I want to know, do you? Do you still remember that our hands were clammy from holding each other? Fuck I miss that. I just being around you. You made everything feel okay. Feel warm. Feel fine. Any worry I had would melt away. That’s not to say I’m not fine now. But I miss what we had, what we could’ve been. Sorry.
Or, how about when we hiked down towards the foothills of the mountain, but instead we got distracted by the caves spiralling through the mountain? I remember kissing you deep in one of those caves, illuminated by the small underground river, and I could still taste the lavender cordial on your lips, the one you had made yourself. I never said it to your face, but it tasted better on your lips than it did from the bottle. Each and every step you took in that cave, you took with finesse - like you had walked that path hundreds, maybe even thousands of times before. And maybe you’d been there before. But that didn’t matter to me, you told me it was your first. And I wholeheartedly believed you. And if I could see you again - I’d believe you again.
And even now, years later, the smell of lavender still takes me back. Do you still keep that little woven sachet under your pillow? You said it helped you sleep. Helped pacify your dreams. “I’ve never had a nightmare with this under my pillow.” Again, I believed you. Silly that. But, well, I never told you this, one night, before we had shared that fateful kiss. I snuck into your room, just to smell it. It was calming, like you. God, I sound pathetic, don't I? It’s so silly. But it's the truth. Lavender is just, it’s the smell I associate with you.
I’m not sorry for who I am, or what I’ve done. And I’m not asking for you to reconcile with me over any of it. I just wish this gulf wasn’t between us. I don’t know why I’m writing this. You will most likely never read this Leona. I just need to pen these words. Get them out of my head.
I started this letter so composed. And here I am, admitting that I’m yearning to undo it all. For the chance at one more night together, spent in the warm embrace of your arms, fingers trailing along the scars on your sides. I am who I am. And you are who you are. Opposites. Diametrically opposed. I just hope that isn’t our fate.
I hope you're still out there, somewhere. It’s incredibly silly for me to think that you’re not about. But it’s a creeping anxiety, a thought that you somehow died. Maybe you tripped, fell, assassinated. I know it’s bizarre - but what about this letter isn’t bizarre? But I hope you’re still out there - the world isn’t kind to people like us but you are so amazingly strong.
I will see you again. One day.
Diana