"Dear Dera"

My alarm rings the second time, and I groan and snooze again. The persistent melody of the alarm echoes through the room, a soundtrack to my reluctance to face the day. It rings again after a while, and I finally muster the strength to get up and switch it off.

I look out the window and see the first rays of sunlight gently kiss the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. The world is still quiet and serene; a perfect time to hear myself breathe and think. The birds are chirping louder than usual, a symphony of nature that contrasts with the mechanical hum of the alarm. I stand up to open the blinds, inviting the morning breeze to kiss my face and wash away the traces of sleep.

Yet, as the serenity of the morning envelopes me, a dissonant note disrupts the tranquillity. A nagging voice echoes within the recesses of my mind, breaking the peaceful spell. "Dera is waiting for you," it shrills, settling upon me like an unwelcome pest, a burden I've been avoiding.

"I know," I admit, my whispered acknowledgement hanging in the air like an unspoken apology. The room feels more empty than it has in a long time, in stark contrast to the tumult of emotions churning within me.

I pace around like a child waiting for the midnight bell, the weight of anticipation bearing down on my shoulders. Seeking solace, I chug bourbon, hoping it gifts me the courage to face what lies ahead.

You always loved my handwriting, a small detail that surfaces in my memory, so I pick up a quill and paper, hoping my words will flow as they wail in my head.

The words seem trapped in my ink, unwilling to be imprinted on the page. They are shy, elusive, and dare I say, dangerous. What arrangement of words could justify the silence that stretched for weeks before? Would it matter now? Is it cruel to write now? Questions like this plague my mind as the pen hovers over the paper, suspended in uncertainty, mirroring the hesitation in my heart. The weight of my shame hangs heavy upon me, a constant reminder of the words left unsaid.

"Dear Dera," I start.

I can imagine it took you a day or two before you opened this letter. A war must have been brimming in your head, debating whether to see my tiny writing, as you call it, or throw my letter into the bin. I know you as much as you know me; you threw it in the bin and then picked it up after an hour or two in annoyance. Your button nose scrunched up as you read this, raged with steam seeping out your ears that I’m just writing to you. Your anger breaking at the resolve of seeing my words.

I’m sorry, truly I am. After our last encounter and your confessions, fear gripped me—more than it ever had. The guilt was deafening. Your words, the tunes, and the melody were too much to bear. We always knew how we felt, but your proclamation made it all too real. It scared me, and I know you needed me to say those words out loud, but I couldn’t dare to say so. I couldn’t dare to yearn for more, and I’ll live my miserable life regretting that.

I did come to the train that morning and watched your face sag as you realized I wouldn’t come. Then you smiled afterwards in resignation and entered the train. I wanted to run after you, to follow you to the ends of the earth, hold you for eternity, and breathe in your scent as I’ve done all my life. I wanted to hold that face one last time and say, "You’re mine," like we used to, but my feet stayed glued to the ground, and my heart ached in return.

How I wish I ran into your embrace like thunder strikes the earth and the ocean shows off its waves.

How I wish my limbs didn't betray me, and my heart watched as it stood still.

I’m sorry I didn’t reply to the letter you sent me; I didn’t have words worthy for you, and with each passing day, it just felt wrong to reply. The weight of those feelings weighed heavy on me. I couldn’t say them out loud, neither could I write them down, but I’m here now, hoping my words would do a semblance of justice to what is inside of me.

You must be devastated and angry with me. I know, I feel the same way about myself.

I remember your lips; they look like they taste like life, tedious but tempting. I remember your skin; a fusion of ice and embers. The very idea sparks an intense warmth within me. I will eternally carry the flame for you, a cosmic truth inscribed in the stars.

If I could trace the contours of your skin for all eternity, each touch would feel as if I'd lived countless lives. The words escape me; I'm not sure if they do justice to the depth of our bond or absolve past mistakes.

I remember when you held me in your warm embrace when Papa-D died. How you broke and let me stitch all of you back together. I remember when you pranked Theodore so badly that he never picked on little kids anymore. I remember the first time blood fought its way out to dance down my thighs, and I cried so much because I didn’t want to be a woman. I knew what that meant for us. You looked at me and said we will forever be girls; I will forever be a girl whose wings won’t be clipped from the burdens of the world, the girl who made sure your smile shone to compete with the sun. I laughed and sniffed, and I was sure we had met in another life before. We were strangers, or lovers, or sisters, or perhaps enemies bound to find each other in the next.

Collins keeps asking about you, about us, but that man is as clueless as a pin.

My heart yearns to hear your voice, that sweet melody made between heaven and hell. It'll be the death of me.

Oh Dera, how I wish you were here. I miss you more than my words can explain.

I remember your scent; fresh like mint, the crooked line on your left side when you smile, and how your face looked that blessed day—the memory is etched forever in my mind. It breaks me every time.

Maybe in our next life, we will meet again free to let the world see us unfiltered, and if only the stars could wait on us, if only the earth could wait for us. I would stand tall and scream those words my heart yells. I would kiss your lips and take off... With each other, we always believed we could fly so high we would defy gravity.

I'm sorry for not keeping my promise.

Yours Loving,

Xavy.

I read through the writings, feeling the weight of each word, the ache of unspoken emotions. Guilt and shame still linger, so I ruffle up the paper, casting it aside to join its growing pile of discarded attempts. The crumpled sheets bear witness to my internal turmoil, each one a failed attempt to express the tangled emotions within.

With a sigh, I tear another sheet of paper, determined to start afresh.

"Dear Dera," I begin again.