Isabella's Letters

There were no letters today. Nothing by her window, no knock at the front door. It had been months. Isabella had begun to grow restless, an unfamiliar ache of longing and sorrow filling her heart as she waited by her window for a glimpse of him in the field, behind a tree, or anywhere in sight.

“Iz, come down. The food is getting cold!” her younger sister, Elowyn, called out impatiently.

“In a minute, Wynn!” Her fingers curled around his old letter, slightly crumpling the edges.

Two summers ago, Isabella had been running off to plain grass fields whenever her mother would leave for town. She’d mutter a simple excuse to her sister before jumping out the window with a lively grin, hand in hand with the boy she’d accidentally met on a morning walk sometime around spring. The burning ache of her legs numbed in comparison to the thrill she’d felt exploring places she hadn't known existed. Jesse had shown her the world in a way she’d never seen before. Her days were spent indulging in new things and discovering hidden places, all with the one boy that felt like home. With him, she felt like she belonged.

But now she wasn’t even certain she’d met him entirely. After he’d unwillingly left for France, his letters became less frequent. There were no visits by her window anymore, no daring endeavors, no late-night walks through the meadow. She could barely remember what his hands felt like in hers, how his whispers sounded in the quiet of the night.

On particularly gloomy days like this one, she’d often find herself wondering how Jesse was, where he was. Did he still enjoy tea there in France as he did here? Would he remember days when they’d sit together trying all sorts of new blends? Isabella desperately clung onto the memories that were beginning to fade into the back of her mind, threatening to become long-forgotten fragments of her life. The idea of forgetting something—someone—so real filled her with newfound dread.

Did he like lilies or hyacinths more? She couldn’t recall. Her mind was weary. Weary from the constant oppression to remember every part of him she had grown to know; exhausted from living in an endless cycle of longing for things not meant to be hers. Her thoughts gnawed at her, chewed on the last bit of rational thought ‘till she could barely differentiate what’d truly happened and what she’d convinced herself to believe had happened.

Her thoughts were spiraling her down a path of despair, not knowing anything other than the desperation clawing at her heart, the yearning desire to keep any bit of him for herself. It was sweet torture bottled in labels of depression and insanity. She could hardly believe herself. She was not insane.

Was she? Was it what people so easily claimed it to be? Heartache? Obsession? Could something so complex be reduced to a few simple words? Perhaps so. Or not.

She could not be anything but perfectly fine. Her mother and sister willed it so. There was no room for cracks. With her mother’s continual visits to town, she was all that Elowyn had left, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being absent from her sister’s life. Though she knew of Jesse and had met him coincidentally several times, Wynn couldn’t possibly be burdened by their troubles as well. Isabella would not allow it. She’d already placed an unspoken burden when she let Elowyn learn of him.

Her grip on the letter tightened. There was a flicker of hesitation before her eyes cast downwards to the words that had already unknowingly etched their way into her heart.

My darling Izza,

I believe the rodents have caught up to me this time. They constantly bicker and fight in the yard, yet with all their noise France is still dull without your warmth, and I fear there isn’t a place lively enough as it is with you.

It had been a month since Jesse had left her. The beginning of her heartache and longing for his presence. She flipped to a different letter.

Love,

Did you really assume I’d let mundane tasks erase you from my thoughts? You’ve already made your home in my heart and mind. There is not a single day where I do not think of you. The way you believe I need to force myself to write to you is deeply insulting.

The previous letter she sent had offensively ‘accused’ that he should not have to write to her out of obligation. It would be strenuous for him to continuously write to her when he had much to worry about in his new home, though he fiercely disagreed.

She shuffled the deck of letters, searching for a recent reply. The writing embossed in gold caught her eye. It was one she’d stuffed beneath other letters, in hopes of pushing the memory as far deep as it could go. There weren’t many words between them. She had responded in silence for a time, opting to punish him a little for a mistake he’d made.

Beloved,

I sense you are angry with me. I apologize. You’ve yet to respond to any of my letters. Please, Izza. I’ll beg if I must but do not torture me with your silence.

Do not torture me with your silence, Jesse. What she wouldn’t give to hear from him again, for him to pester for her response. It’d been so long since she felt the warmth of his hand, listened to the echo of his laugh. She needed this, needed him.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Iz, come eat.”

Another knock. A twist of the doorknob immediately afterward.

“Are those Jesse’s?” The younger girl approached her sister carefully, as one would a stray cat. Her attention flickered alternatingly from her sister to the letters in her hands. Elowyn covered them with her hands, lowering them.

The words were stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to remind her sister of the undoubtedly harsh truth. “Iz, you have to let go.”

She tugged at the letters. “Please. He’s gone.”

“You don’t know that!”

“The massacre in Bordeaux, Iz. They do not spare people in massacres,” Elowyn stated calmly. Her grip on the letters loosened and Isabella allowed her sister to pry them from her hands.

He wasn’t gone. He’d somehow made it out alive. Jesse was a fighter. He could not have gone down with such ease, within the blink of an eye. He had to be alive and she was going to find him. Whichever end of the world he was in, she was going to find him.