Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷 ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ
It felt traitorous, to be wrapped in Amir's arms, his lips upon my neck, as I finally opened the letter from Hülya. At the same time, it was exhilarating, knowing that while she was alone on the shores of Italy, nose stuck in a book, I was with a lover in Switzerland, looking out past the snow-tinted grass with her far from mind. The war had not touched Switzerland in the same way as it had most of Europe, and there we were met with a sense of peace that had not been felt in years. I later learned that my view of it was not quite true. War had brushed Switzerland with quiet instability, though this was not seen within the high classes with which we mixed.
The Great War was not a topic spoken about with Amir. It was as if he had not lived through it. It had not touched him, the way it had the few other men in my life. There came a sense of comfort with his ignorance, a way of forgetting. Perhaps that should have said something about his character- his lack of attention paid toward the years in which too many had suffered, but at that time, the transition back to normality, no one wanted to speak of the fighting. It was from pain, not indifference. I myself had not been thinking straight during those months. My travels could have been called insensitive.
In her letter, Hülya spoke again of what little she could. The beach, the warmth, the long time spent on the trains, the final streams of soldiers that had only just made their way home after months of being trapped abroad. With the way she wrote, she might've been a poet, had she had anything noteworthy to talk about. I could imagine the way in which she would have read the words aloud- with a pointed tilt, prolonging words as if they were a song.
I remember how happy that thought had made me feel, for a moment, until Amir had pushed the paper away, drawing me in. It was as if he knew the perfect times in which to embrace me and as if he could sense every time I thought about what I'd left behind. Those thoughts would be quickly cast away, every time his soft hands found my waist, brushing against skin.
"Who writes to you?" Amir asked, nose brushing against my jaw, breath hot against my face.
"My cousin. Hülya."
He seemed pleased by my answer, rewarding with a kiss to my neck.
"I should write back," I murmured, leaning into his touch.
"Am I not enough?" He said, posing the question as a joke, but the words felt too heavy to brush away. "Come back to bed."
Daylight streamed through the open windows, the light breeze ruffling the linen curtains that hung from the wall. Below the balcony, the bustle of the crowds had begun, leading the way to the small market that was opening only two streets away.
