Chapter Text
”and if we go someplace to dance,
I know that there's a chance you won't be
leaving with me.”
—Somethin' Stupid by Frank Sinantra
To My Precious Silvie,
The kiss you left me that day was unbelievably soft, your touch fragile and careful. It made me wonder if you were molded to be nothing but gentle.
Your hands were rough, but I minded none of your callouses nor the flaking skin that showed hours of your hard work in the fields. I need not mind them, for you were achingly tender with my own palms.
Your sense of justice was unmatched. I remember the day you held my arm. Linked together in a hold, you took me to that faraway building where we found a kitten with none of its family in sight. You said something about how pitiful it was, how we should take it home with us and take care of it.
In truth, I didn't listen too intently. No, not quite. I was too busy looking at you. I was too focused on that expression on your face, worried sick for a cat we did not know of. The whispers of reassurance you let out to the poor critter, muttering that it's going to be alright. Shushing and cradling it as if it were your own, the compassion you had for a singular living being was envious.
I watched you, with my terrible personality back then. I watched you care not only for any and all critters, I also experienced the very same care you put into these strays.
Was I a stray, in your eyes? The way I looked at you, terrified and shaking in fear, attacking at every subtle move you made— the way I was back when we first met. Back when you first told me you were going to take care of me.
I was angrier then. I was furious at the world, unfair in all aspects— It felt as if the ground was crumbling beneath my feet, taking me with it. And I was fine with that.
But then, you came along and I learned the world will continue to be turning, whether I like it or not. And so will I, for as along as I eat well and drink well. You taught me that.
I'm much more well-mannered now. I speak in the language you have taught me to speak, and for that, I am forever grateful. I wish you were here to see it. I wish I could see you again, but I fear everything I do and say will hurt you once more.
My precious, beloved Silvie. I am sorry I never treated you the way I should have. I'm sorry I was never as warm as you were.
I write these letters, hoping they will one day be read by you. No matter how impossible it is, I will get these letters to you some way or another.
When you receive them, I ask of you to not write back. For if you do, I might miss you too much. It will inevitably destroy me.
I long for you, my dear Silvie. Please be well without me. I truly am sorry.
Adoring you, forever and always,
Opaline.
In the cold, dark room with nothing but a mere candle light accompanying her while she writes in ink, she wistfully whispers to the lonely night sky,
”...I wish your lips would touch the back of my hand again. I miss you, always.”
Yet again, not a single sound awakes as a reply. The stars do not twinkle, either. The silence of the clouds are something familiar by now, a habit etched into the very world she lives by.
Once more, she hopes endlessly without a singular sign of an answer.