The Silent Dream

Once upon a time, I myself had the pleasure of making the acquaintance a very unique soul. It was in fact a miracle that he even wanted to acknowledge the existence of someone like me, for I was an uninvited guest to his wondrous pity party in those days. But I guess even condescending miserable men such as he sometimes need a sort of connection to the more wondrous world that exists outside of their own head.

As a child, I hated being known as a nerd. But when that charming trait opened the doors for me to attend Oxford University in England, it shamelessly became my entire personality. I told my home good riddance, and when I arrived in Oxford I spent the first week before classes learning as much as I could about the place. Never had I experienced anything so rich, so enticing, so dark, and so lovely all at once. We don’t know what the word “medieval” really means in America, and so when England so politely gave me the definition upon my arrival, I instantly fell in love and it all made sense. To study here was hardly a part of it, and the introduction to this marvelous land was only a small glimpse of all that lay ahead.

Joe was just nineteen years old when I met him in Oxford. It should’ve been a shock to me that someone like him had made it into such highly esteemed academics, but the mysterious and brash persona he carried explained it all quite well. He was rare, cruel, and beautiful, like his homeland itself.. Exactly the type of man my mother cautioned me to be wary of, so naturally that made me all the more intrigued.

When in doubt, one could find me in the library, which had become my favorite place in the last few months since I had first arrived.  The musty, rich smell of ancient books that loaded shelf after shelf and the golden intricately painted beams that arched the ceilings was all I thought I needed. It wasn’t just a place to study but a place to get away, as the stillness was almost eerie, and yet at the same time it comforted me the way hot chocolate and a crackling fire did on one of those ruthless winter evenings growing up in Alaska. 

I was sitting at the single table at the end of the hall when I heard voices. A tall, slim but fairly built man was having a tussle with the old gruesome librarian, who the very sight of could cause anyone to instantly have a horrid day.

“Heavens! As if anyone could be so vain!” The man shook his head and scoffed as he came toward me. I thought he would ignore my existence, but the closer he came the more I stared. He was perfectly British, the most perfect I had seen yet, which was saying something because in general, attractive males were not lacking in any sense of the word on this side of the Atlantic. He had a perfectly gently chiseled jawline and gracefully tousled hair; it was dirty blonde and his flawless face was set with dark blue eyes. His book bag flopped on his side, as he stopped and stared down at me, his eyes piercing into my soul like daggers. 

“What are you looking at?” He asked gruffly, yet, as the British accent does, he made even that sound wonderful. 

“You just startled me,” I stammered, not in the way I think he presumed however. 

“Ah,” he chuckled with a deadly smile. “You Americans think you can come here and act like you own the place. Unfortunately for you, we give homage to the Queen here.”

Wow, this Englishman was far from chivalrous. And yet, somehow right then I knew that he would become the most enchanting person I’d ever meet. 

“Well I don’t really acknowledge rude boys that think they’re better than everyone,” I sounded much too incompetent in my response to this, but I didn’t know what else to say;  I was so stunned by this current reality.

He laughed again.

“My name’s Joe, and I don’t like snarky girls,, or a whole lot of anyone, really.”

Now I was the one chuckling, “Noted. Well, lucky for you Oxford is indeed the place for misanthropes.”

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, “And your name might be?”

“Margaret.”

“Well, Miss Margaret, I have a feeling I am going to resent you quite a lot.” He grinned again. 

Oh, good; the bewitching was mutual, at least I found myself hoping that. He was very quickly disarming me with his delectable antics. I had no clue what lovely disaster I had just thrown myself into, but I didn’t care, for all caution was already far thrown into the chilling English wind.

The next afternoon as I sat in the library I could hardly study. I had a final soon, but all I could focus on was that dreadful boy. I waited forever for him to reappear again for what felt like hours but he clearly didn’t sense my restlessness and thus failed to come to my aid.

As I walked back to my dorm in the later part of the afternoon; I slowly tramped along Broad Street where all the tourist shops were. I rarely wavered from my religious route but today my mind wandered far beyond these bustling streets; swearing I must be out of control. For I was utterly consumed by thoughts solely consisting of that strange creature I saw once in a brief moment of my existence. I turned the corner to my measly little apartment, or should I say, “flat” that I chose to pay for on my own because apparently dilapidation I considered a charm so long as it dwelled in the old country. Why stay in a crowded dorm with potential friends when I could just have a cracked roof and rodent problem all to myself?

“Quaint,” I heard a sarcastic voice from behind me. Turning, I saw the grin that paired the word I had found so irritating.

“Why are you mocking me?” I glared at him. Today he wore a pair of round glasses, and quickly racked his hand thru his hair as he alighted from his bike which he left strewn about on the sidewalk. He walked up to join me at my front door where I still remained frozen with keys in hand. Why did this stranger literally send me into cardiac arrest…again? 

He came up right beside me with a mocking smile. I truly forgot how to breathe.

“Did you…did you follow me here?” I mustered all the oxygen I could. 

“Ah, little Miss Margaret, just like our Princess, I do find you so endearing. Shall we go for a stroll?”

I took that as practically a mockery, but nevertheless he offered me his arm, much to my shock, and I quickly brushed it away as I scurried past him back onto the street. 

My mind was ablaze, and I couldn’t understand what kind of mental choke hold this was supposed to be.

“Margaret!” I heard him say. This boy was ridiculous. I sighed as I stopped to see him running up to catch me.  

“How come you didn’t ride your bike?” 

“ I didn’t want to out pace you,” he grinned as he wiped his hair back again.

I rolled my eyes and kept walking. I found myself at Saxon Tower, the oldest building in Oxford. From here, you could see it all. When we made it to the top of the tower, I smiled.

“This is my favorite place to come when I’m deep in my thoughts.”

“Would today count as one of those days?” he inquired, inhaling sharply from the steep ascent. 

As I caught my own breath, I stared out over the city, the intersecting streets below us, the university buildings, all the church steeples and other ancient buildings that stretched far beyond. The sun was making its way down to the edge of the horizon, and for once, somehow despite having this Joe boy disrupting my entire, well, everything, I was perfectly at ease with the world.

“Its just nice to not be up here alone for once.” I admitted, with instant regret. 

Even still, he surprisingly became serious. 

“I guess we can be friends,” he quipped, and yet, he meant it. I had to say to myself at least–not him–it was nice to finally have that. I had never ever really put myself out there, really ever, my entire life. But I could not complain. I always thought having friends was overrated, but now I saw a glimpse of what I was missing out on. Not that I had much to go off of; we had only known each other for a whopping two days now, and something told me most friendships did not start out like this. 

Regardless of all that, friends we became. Every day we’d meet in the library to “do homework” after classes and often had to be shushed because we spent too much time laughing instead. I watched the dashing darkness he clothed himself in almost change, though not really not to anyone but myself. I guess it was because he allowed me to see past the hard edges of his personality into the soul inlaid far deeper beneath; a kind, gentle being who wholly embodied the definition of a perfect English gentleman, and just a boy. However, despite this exquisite existence, I had no idea how he felt about me. Regardless of what he thought, he still was the perfect friend to me. Steady, trustworthy, and kind. And so, I decided, friends would have to be enough, and I thought then I could live with that. We met at the top of Saxon Tower at sunset every single evening, and would spend the next three hours laying on this roof, staring at the stars, wishing upon them all the things we wanted to do someday once the bonds and chains of school were lifted. We made a list of all the places we would go; Italy, floating along the canals of Venice. Of course, there was Paris, dancing beneath the Eiffel Tower. And then he made sure to not forget Edinburgh, where we could wander around the magical Christmas markets as snow fell. And then, in my own head, I would imagine Alaska, and try to muster up remembrance of a life I no longer knew–one without him in it.

Then, I would say I was cold and he would tell me I really must remember a sweater next time, since summer was still “quite distant yet,” even though he always brought me a spare jacket of his, anyway. Then he would walk me home and we’d laugh and then he would wish his “fair lady a good night” and tell me to make sure I locked my door or he might have to just sneak back later to give me a good scare. I always dreaded the day this season of my life would end, but he would always tell me that we had all the time in the world. I clung to that, even though I knew it was false faith.

Three more years passed, and that dreaded day came. It was graduation day, and I had never felt fuller than I did then. I found pride in my degree in fine arts from Oxford, but it was the distinguished disciplinarian linked to my arm that made my heart’s capacity most full. He looked at me and smiled. We hugged our families, though he didn’t exactly show any sort of affection to his, since to them, his cool and complex demeanor was all completely normal. 

“We did it, Marge.” bringing me back to reality, he hugged like he thought I was his little sister or something. 

“We did, Sir Josephine,” I had learned to treat him like a brother, though my insides screamed at me, for this was no brotherly kind of love in the least. Even though I knew deep down for him, brotherly love was the dearest it would ever get.

I was supposed to leave town this very night, but the thought of leaving him was unbearable.

We had to do one thing first. He took my hand and led me to the tower. We raced up the stairs as fast as we could, and stayed and talked until the sunset came. It was our last sunset together in Oxford, and it was not to be wasted.

He looked at me as the sun became a mere sliver, and the orange aftermath encompassed the entire sky. The wind blew softly, and for two lovers, I thought it would’ve been the most romantic moment of their lives. 

Joe looked at me as a wisp of hair flew into my eye, and dare I say he caressed my face as he brushed it away.

This friendship was like acid to my heart. It was a mad case of heartburn, for I physically endured the agony of loving him, all the while knowing I had never told him how much my heart beat in angst about him, and how my silence would haunt me forever. I knew he didn’t love me back.  I forced my mind to face the unwelcomed truth–love never could be the neverending daydream; the one where I constantly frolicked about in fields of flowers–with him– in my mind.  Only, I preferred to live with the fantastical facade than to be faced with the actuality of it all, because the moment I gave attention to the facts, I became utterly depressed. Joe could never love me, because how could a girl like me afford such a fairytale? Such things were far too good to be true.

“You are quite something, Marge.” He smiled, almost sounding baffled in the way he spoke. “I don’t think there will ever be a time where we won’t be friends.”

There was that decrepit word again. Ugh.

I smiled slightly as the butterflies that lived eternally in my stomach fluttered about.

He let out the heaviest sigh, as he stepped forward and took my hands.

“All my life, all I wanted to do was graduate from Oxford…no one told me I would have the most pleasant person to do it with in the world.” 

His smile was so small, it highlighted the tenderness of his lips. He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. 

“Goodbye, Marge.” For the first time since I had known him, I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. 

And all I did was stand there, speechless. There were so many things my insides screamed at me to say, but all I could do was watch him walk away.

“Don’t forget, there is still so much to do,”  he said, turning as he entered the stairwell. “We’ll see each other again, Margaret.”

Never mind the fact that his mother had his perfect match awaiting him in London. Or the fact that I had accepted a fine arts internship in New York. How he thought our lives would ever intersect again I have no idea. 

Everything about those three years felt like a sliver of sunshine that glowed through the clouds on a gloomy gray afternoon. All this time, I allowed myself the most detrimental decision of letting him take up a part of my heart; a part of my soul. I liked what Emily Bronte once penned, for it was as though our souls were made of the same substance. I hated myself for it now. My mother never told me how painful love could be. From this moment on, I vowed to myself to never ever love again. Not that I even thought I could after my little Joseph man. Nevertheless as he slipped out of sight he said something that rather confused me as he had just finished analyzing my motionless mood.

“Oh my dear, it’ll all work out. After all, we have all the time in the world.”