A secret in golden ink

A secret in golden ink

Lost between the waves of my memories, buried in the depths of the waves, the echo of the "lost half" calls to me.

This phrase, written in gold ink on a precious notebook, had intrigued countless curious individuals. Some persistently tried to decipher or question its author, but she just stared glassily at the line. Out of frustration, one might think it was some kind of beautiful phrasing, one of those sentences with no real substance that aim only for the most aesthetic form in order to make a few simpletons exclaim "it's beautiful" before realizing that it didn't mean anything. Yet at the tip of those wandering irises, we could perceive a fragment of reality, a powerfully painful reminder of something that more direct words could not encapsulate. The meaning might be clearer, but the suffering and regret would be evicted. And between those sealed lips, we could sense that a secret wanted to be revealed to the world, to come out into the open, but ironically didn't have the courage to reveal itself. A constant oscillation between confession and silence. Sometimes, she'd breathe out a tense sigh: "I can't say it."

During a stroll on a Normandy island, on a tasteless trip that tourists take to pass the time of summer, I saw her shuffling along, scrutinizing the gravel. She had that allure of an illumination, unreal and vaporous, slightly in her own bubble, a tightrope walker on the edge between the imaginary and the world. I wasn't sure whether it was her who wasn't part of my world, or me who wasn't part of hers. An inexplicable force drew me to her, I wanted to enter her eyes, hoping to discover new colors and unknown shapes, but at the same time I feared I'd find only what I already knew and shatter my fantasies. She intermittently nibbled her lower lip, tearing off bits of skin. Her hair fluttered in the wind, so fine and light that the slightest breeze lifted it, and with the sea gusts, it was a chaotic ballet of hair. She seemed surprisingly unperturbed by the phenomenon, so absorbed in reminiscences that she wandered like a ghost. It was when I saw her venturing into nooks and crannies off the beaten track that I began to follow her. Morally, out of concern that she might get lost or hurt; honestly, out of curiosity. Despite her nonchalant attitude, she was indeed moving towards a specific point. Without trying to conceal my presence, I stayed a few yards behind. Her slender fingers caressed the rock outcrop. Like a caress on the head of a wild animal, calculated and reserved, a shy greeting. She slalomed between the stones and the narrowness of the path only increased - there was no randomness in her route - I struggled to keep my composure when my right foot skimmed the edge of a sharp cliff. A slip would be like a kiss from Thanos.

We came to the tip of the ridge, which looked out over the icy, rough English Channel. Below, wave-sharpened rocks dissuaded the bravest from swimming. Dangerously close to the edge, she turned back to me.

"This is it."

"Excuse me?" I said, taken aback.

"This is where that phrase on the notebook was born. The notebook the others are wondering about."

"What happened...." I waved my arms to encircle the "here?" area.

Her jaw twitched, her eyes transfixed as they always were when confronted with this sentence. A tornado of dilemma was visibly growing inside her. Wanting to say it, being able to say it, not succeeding in saying it.

"It was late. The wind was blowing very lightly."

I took a few steps towards her, like a storyteller, a portal to another world, her words were enthralling. Her voice trembled with cold and emotion, but her eyes were anchored in mine, watering.

"In this world, there are extraordinary people. People so fabulous you wouldn't believe their realities. I had the honor of knowing one of them. Tall, beautiful, almost fairy-like. She had..... that confident attitude that set her apart and she seemed so uninfluenced by the opinions of others that it was impossible for me to envisage a world that wouldn't eventually bend to her will and whims."

I didn't interrupt her, but stood only a few dozen inches from her.

"When we build idols in our minds, we don't realize that we're handing over our hopes, dreams and ideals on to them. They have to be perfect and hold to our demands, otherwise we feel betrayed or disdainful for having placed so much expectation on someone so fallible."

She closed her eyes, frowning, racked with remorse. "I destroyed that person. I turned her into a figurehead in the boat of my tumultuous life and failed to accept her humanity. I only loved her reflection, the sublimated appearance I had given her without considering her being and her flaws..."

There was a silence.

"Why here?"

"It was late. The wind was blowing very lightly. She had come to contemplate the horizon during a visit to the islands. The inn gave her that suffocating feeling. When you visit the great outdoors, you can't stand walls. I followed her, as you followed me, silently and from a distance. And she looked out to sea. Silently. When I approached her, she gently turned and revealed her tear-streaked cheeks. It was such a silent evening for the seaside that I could hear her childish sniffles from over a metre away. She who was so imperturbable had the features of her face distorted by grief. At her wits' end, at her strength's end, the mask had fallen, the final curtain was about to fall."

She covered her mouth and long-suppressed sobs flowed. "I, who thought I was her shadow, was her light. And I had failed her. Just as she had failed me. She hoped I'd see the signs, the cries for help, understand her, save her. And I hoped that she would be the lighthouse in the storm, unbreakable, impregnable, that would guide me. We idolized and hurt one another without saying so. But I had destroyed her, I was the only hand she would have taken, and I didn't reach out to her in time. Without explaining her past or her troubles, which didn't need to be said to justify the screaming pain I was facing, she just confided in me "I needed you and you let me down" before letting herself go backwards. "

Cowering, she clutched her mouth as if ordering herself to be quiet.

"In a final twist of fate, she let herself fall, not expecting me to catch her, again, and I was so stunned, as when I discovered her grief, that I watched, motionless, as her body vanished into the waves. An ironic cycle, isn't it?"

"And then what?"

"I warned the others as soon as I could, but the sea isn't a very affectionate mother, taking the lives of her children in a breath."

"Why did you let me follow you and tell me this story after so long of refusing to answer?"

"So you'd stop idealizing me. Your eyes betray a form of fascination that I don't deserve. I'm just a simple person tortured by regret who didn't have the perception or the courage to save her dearest friend. None of this is your fault. What's going to happen, you don't have to carry it on your conscience like I did."

"Wh-?!" I began before my breath was taken away by her hands pressing violently on my chest throwing me back against the rock wall and her into the air.

Her body plunged with a crash into the waves. Frozen in astonishment, I couldn't react, and for a moment I felt as if I'd seen that silent night when the wind wasn't blowing on that windy, cold November day. All that remained was her notebook on the floor that she had brought with her. I took it carefully in my hands. This sentence that had become mine, engraved as precisely in my soul as the ink was golden, seemed to have been written by my own hand, so much did it resonate within me.

And when people in later years asked me "What are you referring to?" while staring at the notebook, my eyes would turn glassy, that ridge would show in my irises, and then I'd breathe out, "I can't say it."