Dear Charles

Dear Charles,

Do you remember the first time we met? It was the night of my wedding. Your sister, my fiancée, often told me about her mysterious half-brother who would soon walk her down the aisle. Perhaps I was bemused by the idea, for I was rather expecting a portly man in his forties, whom his sister described as an unwrought hermit wasting his life in Scotland.

When you walked through that golden-lit aisle with my now-beloved wife, I saw—or rather sensed—a sadness in you. Your hair, which was finely combed and oiled to a shine, and your suit, a radiant yellow, were a sharp contrast to your eyes that seemed cold and empty despite the wide smile. Perhaps you think me strange, for shouldn't I be looking at my wife? Alas, I am strange, for at that moment, you sharpened my senses, my curiosity. While my wife was a kaleidoscope of colors, you were pale, dull, and muted. In a room of striking extravagance, you were obscured by shadow. A darkness, walking on the sun. Somehow, it awakened something in me. Something profound and unfathomable.

When you stood near me, I felt your stare. Your belligerent nature sent shivers down my spine, leaving me astounded by your sheer power. I was holding her hand, uttering promises of love and fidelity, yet my thoughts were completely of yours. Is that possible? Am I mad? For after all these years, I still could not convince myself otherwise.

We made our vows, and our future was fixed. Yet, I was rather inclined to write my own future. I was inclined to set fire. And you, my dear Charles, were also inclined to burn. I was never presumptuous nor was I foolhardy, but at that moment, I was overcome with feelings that were both strange and resplendent. I was dancing on thin ice, swaying and swaying reaching for your arms on the other side. Don't mistake me for being adulterous, for I love my wife and I am willing to spend my life with her. But you, you, were my respite, my truth in this unbending world of lies.

I introduced myself to you, and your gaze never left mine. Is that what it feels like when you meet the love of your life? Like everything around you becomes a blur, like you suddenly lose touch with the world and the only proof of your existence is him? It’s scary and strange, yet we long for it.

Now tell me, my dear Charles, was that the first time you fell in love with me?

Your forever earnest admirer,

Philip

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Dear Philip,

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Those were the budding words of Shakespeare. I have read them a few times, yet the words always leave me unsatisfied. You are far more difficult to describe. I could write you a sonnet, yet I fear that my feelings would soon overwhelm you. Shall I say you were a blazing color to my life?

Philip, Philip, Philip. How many times had I uttered your name at night? Philip. I had never been fonder of sleep, knowing that I would soon reunite with you in my dreams. My sister told me that you were acting strange, that you were becoming a shadow of your former self. She is brave yet naive. To describe you as a shadow is an insult to your incandescence. You are merely a metamorphized version of you, bolder and grander.

Perhaps in this world, we cannot be reunited. But my heart is set on you, my beloved. And I'll forever mistake your name as a prayer.

Yours dearly,

Charles

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Dear Charles,

Forgive me, my love, for I am welded by this promise, by this sanctity of marriage. I watched myself fading every night, my wife felt it too, my erosion. She knew me well enough. Perhaps I am an open book with rotten and moth-eaten pages. My telling her of our love is a curse, and I shall not allow anyone to condemn you for my mistake.

Is love an atrocity? Is truth a profanity? Convince me otherwise, for I am losing faith in this society. Would I rather lie to be sanctified? Should I wear a mask of joviality and live in eternal falsehood? I long for your touch, for your voice, and for your reassurance. Yet I fear that if I hold you, you will vanish.

I can only wish that you are well, my dear Charles. Don't let society burden you. Live as you intend to live. Till then, I shall be happy.

Your beloved,

Philip

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Dear Philip,

My love, know that I am bereft. Your absence is an echoing void in my heart. A wound that can only be mended by your touch. I fear for our life, but more so, I fear for the absence of love, of peace. I have grown fond of this world, yet I had forgotten about the atrocities faced by our ancestors.

To be seen as filthy and monstrous for feelings innate to humans is strange and unbecoming. We are at war with ideologies, devising our own havoc. We are on the verge of mass destruction. The recurring deaths of queer people now seemingly becoming a genocide.

Fear not, my love, for we are strong, and we will soon reunite. Be it in dreams or another life.

Yours truly,

Charles

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Dear Charles,

My dear Charles, know that I am writing this in haste. My wife's vehement rage has already filled me with grief. She intends to take my children and strip me of my properties.

I am suffering an agony of my own creation. I love my wife and I cannot imagine a life without my children. My daughter abhors me for my choices and I continue to loathe my whole existence.

Perhaps I am destined for sadness, for pain, and confusion. I can no longer write you letters, my love, for I don't want you to suffer the same agony as mine. I intend to live an extraordinary life, yet I am trapped in this hateful circumstance. I can no longer look in the mirror without feeling disgust and abomination.

I love you, my dear Charles, but I am afraid we cannot be together. I shall no longer burden you with such pain.

Yours truly,

Philip

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Dear Philip,

You are my love, and my summer's end. How could you bequeath me such pain? I have cherished your life, and I'm afraid without you I will never be able to cherish mine. I'll forever long for your letters, for your laugh, and for your smile. Wait for me, my dear love, for we will soon reunite.

Yours forevermore,

Charles