Because I Love You ~

January 10 - 1988 A Diary Entry

January 10 - 1988 

A thought transposed hastily onto the diary of Senkath Kodimala

I finally have an answer to your question, though I'm troubled to note that it's too late to let you know.

A foolish childhood version of me imagined it to be like a status, ephemeral and flitting, but to be honest I had never thought much of it until I'd met you. Positions change. Scientist, CEO, genius, hopeless, plummeting, schizophreniac. I've held many titles. So why is it so different to hold you?

Covet. Crave. Yearn.

Words cannot grasp the perplexment of my predicament, of the fluttering wingbeats in my chest upon seeing you, of the belittling agony when I see you with Olive turning stony and lodging into my throat until my eyes glitter green. And when every fateful moment passes, the insurmountable grief as Olive smiles in my direction, rejoicing as he speaks of fond remembrances. My eyes stretched that day, seeing you in that white dress. Olive wasn't there that day. You were all swollen, filled with the prospect of new life, and the gaunt face that had seemed so emaciated over the terminal stages of your pregnancy was flushed with pride and contentment.

It's my fault for noticing: the rebellious strand of your mousy-brown hair that dashed handsomely against your face, the loquacious greeting you approached me with alongside that slight smile, the slight skip in your step as we went on picnics together, rendezvous that meant nothing to you but the world to me. When they lowered you into the casket, why did it seem like you'd flown even higher up, even further away from me?

I haven't seen Olive since that day. The culmination of my betrayal, my grief, my utter despondency—but I'm not alone. They've been visiting me, you know. I'd like to call them temporary inhabitants, but I don't think they'll leave anytime soon. Maybe the doctors at the hospital that referred to me not by name but by disease were correct after all. Damn you psychology. But if you ever cared for me, you'd return, wouldn't you? I wouldn't mind the rest of the hallucinations if it meant I could see you, laugh with you, hold you once more.

It's been a week since they moved you to this city. Akrasia, they call it. It's always overcast and the few people who live here mostly keep to themselves, save for that odd doctor. I moved into that old house near the fjord that you mentioned once, the one you said would be a good spot to grow old in. The backyard is surrounded by brambles, though I'm sure you'd say they are heathers in disguise...

The Doctor says that writing to you will help bury the rest of my feelings for you, like the way they buried you in the cemetery on the other side of this small town. If anything, they seemed to have unearthed them.

I can answer the question you asked me that one day we went kayaking and spent the entire day out on the water, feeling the warmth of the sunset on our backs. You looked at me so innocently, preening but not prying, thoughtful.

"What is love, to you?"

As I see the crescent-shaped arc of your body in my backyard, skipping rocks like you used to (always mocking me for my inability to do so), I stumbled forward, emotions I cannot name surging through me and pushing me closer and closer to my unrequited adoration, the one I couldn't bear to part with.

Your head turns, surprise and excitement popping on your fair countenance, as I collide into you and wrap you in my arms, breathing in the slight tang of honey and strawberries and bereavement. Somewhere along the way, the tears start flooding.

"Welcome back." Your arms find their way around me, soft and soothing. I'd known the answer for far too long and had been silent until it was far too late. You, Heather.

 I love you.