Letters I Will Never Send (IV): Notes, Choices, and Books

My dearest James,

There are two books sitting on the pillow next to mine--the side of the bed that was once yours. I finally dug them out of storage a week ago, and now they sit, waiting for me to open them.

I’ve been avoiding them.

I know they are beautiful--how could they not be, when you have chosen them?

I know that, tucked inside each cover, there is a note for me in which you explain your choice.

That is as far as I got today, that note.

I opened a book, read that single sentence in your neatly haphazard handwriting, and closed it again, because it made me smile and want to kiss you.

I wonder if I will ever be able to read them.

The notes, the choices, the books--they are painful tokens of the regard you once held for me. I don’t want to disturb the perfection of their crisp pages and un-creased spines, for they are all I have left of you that is rightfully mine. They may yet find their way into a box for the keeping of things that remind me of you.

I fear the day that I am finally able to open each book and strive past those little notes, and read the stories you chose for me. I fear that day, for it might mean that my love for you will have been stifled--buried--just enough for a sad smile instead of a broken heart. A whispered song, when it was once the truest thing I have ever known.

Forgive me for these two books I may never read, for I believe this truth to be worth more than a story, unrequited though it may be.

Forgive me for needing something to sleep to, now that you’re gone.

Love always,

~Rue