SHORT-FORM EPISTOLARY STORY
You Removed a Message
Finn is typing…
I hear the waves again. Their mellow, calm flow. It feels as if the ocean waited patiently for the sun to show up, just so it wouldn’t have to wake up alone. Fidgeting my toes, I bury them deeper in the sand. Beneath the soft, dry layer, I find moistness from last evening’s tide. Leaning back, I stretch my neck to get a taste of the air rushing above. I see the seagulls, and they see me too. I can’t believe they didn’t wake you up. You sleep like a rock.
I turn my head to capture another frame of you, which I could later repaint in my head every night you’re not there. I like to prepare myself for the dark times, as I know they usually come anyway.
I study your hair. Slavic blonde, I would say, though I’m not sure if that’s the correct term. They’re tangled, full of sea salt, and curl even more now. And I see the sand on your face, too. It’s between your wrinkles, under your eyes, and in your beard. So unconscious, so calm.
I sometimes ponder where you are, when you look like this. Do you dream of our world, or rather of what’s not there? Do you dream of me, of what we could’ve been? Maybe you don’t have any dreams at all. I don’t know how the amount of wine we had last night could allow us both to have them anyway.
I lay next to you, making sure I’m close enough to feel your breath. I bury my hand in your hair and take a deep dose of salty ocean air. I hear you say something under your breath, and my heart stops for a moment. The corners of your mouth rise gently. I think you muttered “Hey”. And you know what I thought? I thought that… maybe you could stay. With me, just like this, forever. Wild idea, as we both know it’s not in my nature to get what I want, but rather to push it away.
So today I’m not there, and you’re not there with me. And our beach somewhere in France is now only a distant memory. The kind I would give everything to live over and over again, only to see you wake up next to me, completely covered in sand at least this one more time.
Today, the lump is still there. It feels as if I had a rubber ball in my throat which hurts every time I swallow. It feels harder recently. Like the memories of you weigh on my chest, making each breath harder and harder to take.
I have mastered multiple distractions which help with keeping you out of my head. I had to if I wanted to start coping properly again. Nonetheless, I still experience moments where the shadow of your face lurks beneath them, and I can’t control it yet. At least not every time.
Time, yeah. I guess it comes with time. First, I will lose the color of your eyes. It will dissolve somewhere between your smile painted by the sunset light and the warmth of your dry, narrow lips. And they too will disappear someday. And someday, you’ll become only a distant memory of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I am ready for it. I have yearned for this to happen for so long now. But this September I paint the vivid shades of your skin in my mind, and as long as I can do that, nothing will become better.
Right. It’s September again. I’m here, right where I told you I’ll be. It’s already been a few weeks on the trail. I thought I could reach Santiago de Compostela in four weeks. Before you say I’m overambitious again — that’s how long the trail takes for most pilgrims. But sticking to that plan would mean I would be coming back home in less than a week, and I know I’m not ready for this. Quite frankly, I don’t believe I will be ready anytime soon. So, I don’t rush the trail, not anymore. I walk around, but not really forward. I can stay here as long as I’d like, and right now I’d like to stay for eternity.
Most of the time I’m alone, so I do my best to be good company for myself. I suppose it’s going well. And sometimes I stumble upon other pilgrims, too. I watch myself struggle more and more each day to keep up the small talk, and I’m not sure if I mind it. I find peace on this solitary journey. I don’t want to share it with anyone. I don’t want to have to talk to anyone for as long as I wish, and if I wish a lifetime, so be it.
The trail leads through small towns, where also the Albergues are. I think you remember what those are, but just in case — it’s those shelters for pilgrims taking on the trail. Anyways, most of the nights I stay in the tent I carry strapped to one of my backpacks. When I need a more explicit shower, I make my way to the nearest town down the road, but that doesn’t happen often. The sinks placed around the trail are enough, and if I had to, I could feed myself only with the forest’s fruits. You see, I could stay here forever. I have all of this thought out, as always. I have lived in survival mode for so long now, nothing can be too much for me.
But I know I have my family waiting for me back home, in the city. That’s right now the only reason for me to come back. Yet I know it’s too weak to keep me going at a somewhat stable pace, and that’s why I let my mind go. And it travels back to you and our beach somewhere far away in France.
Don’t get me wrong, at first, I fought it. I know it’s not healthy. But I know life without hope leads us nowhere. So I want you to be my hope, even if that means yearning for the hopeless. So for the past weeks, I decided to believe you remember I would be here. Maybe we’ll meet in the next pilgrim shelter. Or the beach, to spend yet another night together. You can also already be in Santiago, waiting for me at the Cathedral. And that’s my reason, that’s why I have to go. You really might be waiting for me somewhere, just around the corner.
And I wonder, what could your first words be? I know you would smile first, with your lips, eyes, and pinkish cheeks. But can I predict the words you say? I never could, so I don’t think I should try now. You always had a strange skill to always communicate the unpredictable. But.. I want you to know, you wouldn’t have to say a thing this time. It would be enough just to see you out there, somewhere, waiting for me. But would that change anything, and if so, would it even be enough?
I can never be sure, but what I am sure of is; I have to keep walking. So I walk the trail with fragile hope and no rush, gutted out and lacking half of me you promised to eventually return someday. And I walk, and I walk.
And first, I hear it again. The vastness of blue. I can’t help but feel a sense of relief every time the waves put in motion all the seashells scattered around the shore. My muscles relax, as the seagulls dance above my head, and the salt gets into my nose. It’s almost like then, nearly the same. Well, the air smells different — it’s more dense, moist, and heavy, as Spanish air should be.
I take my shoes off and feel the warmth of the sand. Shivers travel down my spine. For a moment, I tilt my head backward and close my eyes. The wind plays with my hair, sticking a few strands right onto my moist skin. And your fingers warm up my hand, as I turn my head sideways to see your face.
“What’s up?” I see the smile in the wrinkles around your eyes.
“What’s up,” I respond, as usual.
There are no other words we repeat so blindly at every occasion. But I know we both always wanted to know. No matter if the response was simply I’m hungry, or I want to die. Or even nothing, like in that very moment I sink in now. I feel like “What’s up” is our version of “Okay.” Don’t you feel the same way?
I can sense your chest on my back when you slowly let my hand go, only to wrap your arms around my body. You squeeze me so tight, for a moment I can’t breathe. Yet, I don’t ever mutter a word — It feels so calm I know I could die like this, and never feel more safe.
“You surprise me more and more every day,” whispering, you lay your chin on my shoulder, and as your cheek touches my skin, I recognize your smile getting wider.
“How?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.
“You’re crazy,” you move your head even closer, so I can exactly hear your every word. “You don’t think twice about a thing. You just go. I never saw any doubt in you, Skye.”
I know that’s what you may think. After all, that’s all I ever showed you. But, what you don’t know is — with you by my side, I don’t feel like I’m any of that. I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl again, a kid trying to understand life and what love is for the first time. Right here, with you.
“I want to promise you something.” I hear you say, as I keep my sight locked onto the blue water.
The waves are rising.
“I promise I’ll always be here for you.”
I turn around, so I can look into your eyes.
“What?”
“In here” you poke my forehead gently, and I can’t help myself but laugh.
That makes your smile even wider, and your smile makes my heart even warmer.
“That’s an evil promise, you know?” I notice, letting my pessimistic thoughts go. “Haunting me for the rest of my life in my own head. I wouldn’t want that. I would rather have you here, not there.”
“I can’t promise that I’ll be here forever, Skye. It’s not up to me, and it’s not up to you. But… I can promise I will always live there. And I don’t find it evil. The way I live depends on you. You have the power to decide.”
“What do you mean it’s not up to you? You decide if you’re here or there, if you’re with me, or away from me. If you’re mine, or someone else’s.”
“Or my own,” you point out. “I’d always want to be my own.”
I look at the sand beneath our feet, but you bring my chin back up with your cold fingertips.
“I promise I will always be there for you, Skye. As a friend, advisor, comforter, or enemy. I will be happy to become whatever you would like me to become. Create me, use me, hate me, shatter me, and rebuild me again. I’m all yours. And I promise to always serve you the way you want me to. Right here.”
You knew exactly what you wanted to say, and you said it. Your words were measured, each phrase a deliberate choice. A consciousness lingered in every syllable you uttered. But now, in September, twelve months apart I can say; there’s one thing you got wrong. I can’t control it. I can’t control you. It’s true. I adore you, I despise you, I argue and make up with you. You’re my friend, you’re my enemy, you’re my lover and my therapist. You’re different, every day. Yet, I can’t make you leave me for good, even though you promised to serve me the way I want you to.
And back then, during our last days on our very own French beach — I couldn’t see it, not even a shadow. Funny that now it’s as clear to me as it was to you back when you first saw me.
Because the truth is, you were always love to me. And I was never love to you.
Thanks for reading, you guys! This was honestly super fun for me to write. Originally, it was a prologue for a short story I abandoned about half a year ago — I was experimenting with epistolary story writing.
Hope you enjoyed; here’s some nice beach walk music recommendation as a bonus!
